[i]

CAMP AND TRAIL

[iv]

From a painting by Fernand Lungren The Home of the “Red Gods”

[v]

CAMP AND TRAIL

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

[vi]

[vii]

PREFACE

[ix]

CONTENTS

[xi]

ILLUSTRATIONS

[3]

CHAPTER I

THE WILDERNESS TRAVELER

A sense of direction, therefore, I should
name as the prime requisite for him who
would become a true woodsman, depending
on himself rather than on guides. The faculty
is largely developed, of course, by much
practice; but it must be inborn. Some men
possess it; others do not—just as some men
have a mathematical bent while to others[4]
figures are always a despair. It is a sort of
extra, having nothing to do with criterions
of intelligence or mental development, like
the repeater movement in a watch. A
highly educated or cultured man may lack
it; the roughest possess it. Some who
have never been in the woods or mountains
acquire in the space of a vacation a fair
facility at picking a way; and I have met
a few who have spent their lives on the
prospect trail, and who were still, and always
would be, as helpless as the newest city
dweller. It is a gift, a talent. If you have
its germ, you can become a traveler of the
wide and lonely places. If you have it not,
you may as well resign yourself to guides.

The sense of direction in its simplest and
most elementary phase, of course, leads a
man back to camp, or over a half-forgotten
trail. The tenderfoot finds his way by little
landmarks, and an attempt to remember
details. A woodsman adds to this the general
“lay” of the country, the direction its
streams ought to flow, the course the hills[5]
must take, the dip of strata, the growth of
trees. So if the tenderfoot forgets whether
he turns to right or left at a certain half-remembered
burnt stub, he is lost. But if
at the same point the woodsman’s memory
fails him, he turns unhesitatingly to the left,
because he knows by all the logic of nature’s
signboards that the way must be to the left.
A good mountaineer follows the half-obliterated
trails as much by his knowledge of
where a trail must go, as by the sparse indications
that men have passed that way. I
have traveled all day in the Sierras over
apparently virgin country. Yet every few
hours we would come on the traces of an
old trail. We were running in and out of
it all day; and at night we camped by it.

That is, as I have said, elementary. It
has to do with a country over which your
woodsman has already traveled, or about
which he knows something. In the last
analysis, however, it means something more.

The sense of direction will take a man
through a country of which he knows nothing[6]
whatever. He travels by the feel of it,
he will tell you. This means that his experience
subconsciously arranges certain factors
from which the sixth sense we are discussing
draws certain deductions. A mountaineer,
for example, recognizes the altitude by the
vegetation. Knowing the altitude he knows
also the country formation, and so he can
tell at once whether the cañon before him
will narrow to an impassable gorge, or remain
open enough to admit of passage.
This in turn determines whether he shall
choose the ravines or ridges in crossing a
certain divide, and exactly how he can
descend on the other side. The example is
one of the simpler. A good man thus noses
his way through a difficult country with considerable
accuracy where a tenderfoot would
become speedily lost.

But if a sense of direction is the prime
requisite, thoroughness presses it close. It
is sometimes very difficult to command the
necessary patience. At the end of a hard
day, with the almost moral certainty that the[7]
objective point is just ahead, it is easy,
fatally easy, when the next dim blaze does not
immediately appear, to say to oneself—”Oh,
it’s near enough”—and to plunge ahead.
And then, nine times out of ten, you are in
trouble. “I guess this is all right” has lost
many a man; and the haste too great to be
sure—and then again sure—has had many
fatal results. If it is a trail, then be certain
you see indications before proceeding.
Should they fail, then go back to the last
indication and start over again. If it is new
country, then pick up every consideration
in your power, and balance them carefully
before making the smallest decision. And
all the time keep figuring. Once having
decided on a route, do not let the matter
there rest. As you proceed keep your
eyes and mind busy, weighing each bit
of evidence. And if you become suspicious
that you are on the wrong tack, turn back
unhesitatingly, no matter how time presses.

A recent expedition with a fatal termination
illustrates this point completely. At[8]
first sight it may seem invidious to call attention
to the mistakes of a man who has laid
down his life in payment for them. But
it seems to me that the chief value of such
sad accidents—beyond the lessons of courage,
endurance, comradeship, devotion, and
beautiful faith—lies in the lesson and warning
to those likely to fall into the same
blunders. I knew Hubbard, both at college
and later, and admire and like him. I
am sure he would be the first to warn others
from repeating his error.

The expedition of which I speak started
out with the purpose of exploring Labrador.
As the season is short some haste was necessary.
The party proceeded to the head of a
certain lake into which they had been told
they would find a river flowing. They
found a river, ascended it, were conquered
by the extreme difficulties of the stream, one
of the party perished, and the others came
near to it.

As for the facts so far: The first thought
to occur to a man entirely accustomed to[9]
wilderness travel would be, is there perhaps
another stream? another river flowing into
that lake? Encountering difficulties he
would become more and more uneasy as to
that point, until at last he would have
detached a scout to make sure.

But mark this further: The party’s informants
had told Hubbard that he would
find the river easily navigable for eighteen
miles. As a matter of fact the expedition
ran into shallows and rapids within a half
mile of the lake.

To a woodsman the answer would have
stood out as plain as print. He would have
retraced his way, explored farther, found
the right river, and continued. But poor
Hubbard was in a hurry, and moreover possessed
that optimistic temperament that so
endeared him to all who knew him. “They
must have made a mistake in the distance.
I guess this is all right,” said he, and pushed
on against difficulties that eventually killed
him.

To a man accustomed to exploration such[10]
a mistake is inconceivable. Labrador is not
more dangerous than other wooded northern
countries; not so dangerous as the big mountains;
much safer than the desert. A wrong
turn in any of these wildernesses may mean
death. Forty men succumbed to the desert
last summer. Do not make that wrong turn.
Be sure. Take nothing for granted—either
that “they made a mistake in the distance,”
or that “it’s probably all right.”
One of the greatest of American wilderness
travelers knew this—as all wilderness travelers
must—and phrased it in an epigram
that has become classic. “Be sure you are
right, and then go ahead,” advised Daniel
Boone.

So you do not get lost—barring accidents—you
are safe enough. But to travel
well you must add to your minor affairs the
same quality, slightly diluted, perhaps, that
I have endeavored to describe above. In
this application it becomes thoroughness and
smartness. A great many people object
while camping to keeping things in trim, to[11]
getting up in the morning, to moving with
expedition and precision. “Oh, what’s the
use in being so particular!” they grumble,
“this is supposed to be a pleasure trip.”

Outside the fact that a certain amount
of discipline brings efficiency, there is no
doubt that a slack camp means trouble
sooner or later. Where things are not
picked up, something important will sooner
or later be lost or left behind. Where the
beginning of the day’s journey hangs fire,
sooner or later night will catch you in a very
bad place indeed. Where men get in the
habit of slouching, physically and mentally,
they become in emergencies unable to summon
presence of mind, and incapable of
swift, effective movements. The morale is
low; and exclusive of the fact that such
things are an annoyance to the spirit, they
may in some exceptional occasion give rise
to serious trouble. Algernon is ten minutes
slow in packing his horse; and Algernon
gets well cursed. He is hurt as to the soul,
and demands of himself aggrievedly how ten[12]
minutes can be valued so high. It is not
the ten minutes as a space of time, but as
a measure of incompetence. This pack train
is ten minutes short of what a pack train
should be; and if the leader’s mind is
properly constructed, he is proportionately
annoyed.

Although not strictly germane to a discussion
of equipments, I am tempted to hold
up a horrible example.

One evening we were all sitting around a
big after-dinner fire at the Forest Supervisor’s
summer camp in the mountains, when
an outfit drifted in and made camp a few
hundred yards down stream. After an
interval the leader of the party came over
and introduced himself.

He proved to be a youngish man, with
curly hair, regular features, a good physique,
and eyes handsome, but set too close
together. A blue flannel shirt whose top
button was unfastened, rolled back to show
his neck; a handkerchief was knotted below
that; in all his external appearance he leaned[13]
toward the foppish-picturesque. This was
in itself harmless enough. Shortly he began
to tell us things. He confided that his chief
ambition was to rope a bear; he related adventures
in the more southern mountains;
he stated that he intended to travel up
through the Minarets and over Agnew’s
Pass, and by way of Tuolumne. This was
to consume two weeks! Finally he became
more personal. He told us how President
Roosevelt when on his Pacific Coast tour
had spoken to him personally.

“When the train started,” said he, “I ran
after it as hard as I could with a lot of
others, but I ran a lot faster and got ahead,
so the President spoke directly to me—not
to the crowd, but to me!“

He left us suitably impressed. Next
morning his camp was astir at five o’clock—as
was proper considering the strenuous programme
he had outlined. About seven our
friend came over to get his animals, which
he had turned out in the Supervisor’s pasture
over night—ten animals in another[14]
man’s mountain pasture! We had a shooting
match, and talked Reserve matters for
just one hour and twenty minutes. Then
somebody waked up.

“I wonder what’s become of Jones; let’s
go see.”

We went. Jones was standing dusty in
the middle of the corral. In his hand he
held a short loop not over three feet across.
This he whirled forward and overhand.
Occasionally he would cast it at a horse.
Of course the outraged and astounded animal
was stricken about the knees, whereupon
he circulated the confines of the corral
at speed.

And the animals! At the moment of our
arrival Jones was bestowing attention on
a dignified and gaunt mule some seventeen
hands high. I never saw such a giraffe.
Two about the size of jackasses hovered
near. One horse’s lower lip wabbled abjectly
below a Roman nose.

We watched a few moments; then offered
mildly to “help.” Jones, somewhat heated[15]
and cross, accepted. The first horse I roped
I noticed was barefoot. So were the others.
And the route was over a rough granite and
snow country. Thus we formed a procession,
each leading some sort of equine freak.
It was by now nearly nine o’clock.

Camp we found about half picked up.
The other members of the party were nice,
well-meaning people, but absolutely inexperienced
in the ways of the wilderness. They
had innocently intrusted themselves to Jones
on the strength of his self-made reputation;
and now undoubtedly were taking all this
fuss and discomfit quite as part of “roughing
it.”

When we saw them we were stricken with
pity and a kindly feeling which Jones had
failed to arouse, so we turned in to help
them saddle up.

Jones was occupied with a small mule
which he claimed was “bad.” He hitched
said mule to a tree, then proceeded to elevate
one hind leg by means of a rope thrown over
a limb. Why he did not simply blindfold[16]
the animal no one could tell. We looked
forward with some joy to the throwing of
the pack-hitches.

On the Trail

But at this moment a Ranger dashed up
with news of a forest fire over in the Rock
Creek country. The Rangers present immediately
scattered for their saddle horses,
while I took a pack and went in search of
supplies.

Shortly after one o’clock I was organized,
and departed on the trail of the Rangers.
They had struck over the ridge, and down
the other side of the mountains. Their
tracks were easy to follow, and once atop
the divide I could see the flames and smoke
of the fire over the next mountain system.
Desiring to arrive before dark, I pushed
ahead as rapidly as possible. About half
way down the mountain I made out dust
ahead.

“A messenger coming back for something,”
thought I.

In ten minutes I was stricken dumb to
overtake the Jones party plodding trustingly[17]
along in the tracks made by the
Rangers.

“Well,” I greeted them, “what are you
doing over here? A little off your beat,
aren’t you?”

The members of the party glanced at
each other, while Jones turned a dull red.

“Wrong trail, eh?” said he easily; “where
does this one go to?”

“Why, this isn’t a trail!” I cried. “Can’t
you see it’s just fresh tracks made since
morning? This will take you to the fire,
and that’s about all. Your trail is miles to
the north of here.”

For the moment he was crushed. It was
now too late to think of going back; a short
cut was impossible on account of the nature
of the country. Finally I gave him a direction
which would cut another trail—not
where he had intended to go, but at least
leading to horse feed. Then I bade him
farewell, and rode on to the fire.

Long after dark, when hunting for the
place the boys had camped, I met that[18]
deluded outfit moving supperless, homeless,
lost, like ghosts in the glow of the fire line.
Jones was cross and snapped at me when
I asked him if he wasn’t seeing a good deal
of country. But I looked at the tired faces
of the other members of the party, and my
heart relented, and I headed them for a
meadow.

“How far beyond is Squaw Dome?”
asked Jones as he started.

“Sixteen miles—about,” said I.

“About eight hours the way you and I
travel, then,” said he.

“About eight weeks the way you travel,”
amended a Ranger standing near.

Two days later a shakemaker came to help
us fight fire.

“Oh, yes, they passed my place,” said he.
“I went out and tried to tell him he was
off’n the trail, but he waved me aside. ‘We
have our maps,’ says he, very lofty.”

Twelve days subsequently I rode a day
and a half to Jackass Meadow. They told
us the Jones party just passed! I wonder[19]
what became of them, and how soon their
barefooted horses got tender.

Now the tenderfoot one helps out, nor
makes fun of, for he is merely inexperienced
and will learn. But this man is in the mountains
every summer. He likewise wishes
to rope bears.

No better example could be instanced as
to the value of camp alertness, efficiency, the
use of one’s head, and the willingness to take
advice. I had with me at the time a younger
brother whom I was putting through his
first paces; and Jones was to me invaluable
as an object lesson.

The purpose of this chapter is not to tell
you how to do things, but how to go at them.
If you can keep from getting lost, and if
you can keep awake, you will at least reach
home safe. Other items of mental and
moral equipment you may need will come
to you by natural development in the environment
to which the wild life brings you.

[23]

CHAPTER II

COMMON SENSE IN THE WILDERNESS

Yet in time, if he is a woodsman, and
really thinks about such affairs instead of
taking them for granted, he will inevitably
gravitate toward the correct view of these
things. Some day he will wake up to the
fact that he never wears a coat when working
or traveling; that about camp his sweater
is more comfortable; and that in sober fact
he uses that rather bulky garment as little
as any article in his outfit. So he leaves it
home, and is by so much disencumbered. In[25]
a similar manner he will realize that with the
aid of cold-water soap the shirt he wears may
be washed in one half hour and dried in the
next. Meanwhile he dons his sweater, A
handkerchief is laundered complete in a
quarter of an hour. Why carry extras, then,
merely from a recollection of full bureau
drawers?

In this matter it is exceedingly difficult
to be honest with oneself. The best test
is that of experience. What I have found
to be of no use to me, may measure the difference
between comfort and unhappiness
to another man. Carry only essentials: but
the definition of the word is not so easy. An
essential is that which, by each man’s individual
experience, he has found he cannot
do without.

How to determine that? I have elsewhere
indicated[1] a practical expedient, which will
however, bear repetition here. When you
have reached home after your trip, turn your
duffle bag upside down on the floor. Separate[26]
the contents into three piles. Let pile
No. 1 include those articles you have used
every day—or nearly that often; let pile No.
2 comprise those you have used but once;
and pile No. 3 those you have not used at
all. Now, no matter how your heart may
yearn over the Patent Dingbat in No. 3,
shut your eyes and resolutely discard the
two latter piles.

Naturally, if you are strong-minded, pile
No. 1 will be a synonym for your equipment.
As a matter of fact you will probably not
be as strong-minded as that. You will argue
to yourself somewhat in this fashion:

“Yes, that is all very well; but it was only
a matter of sheer chance that the Patent
Dingbat is not in pile No. 1. To be sure, I
did not use it on this particular trip; but in
other conditions I might need it every day.”

So you take it, and keep on taking it, and
once in a great while you use it. Then some
day you wake up to two more bits of camp
philosophy which you formulate to yourself
about as follows: An article must pay in[27]
convenience or comfort for the trouble of its
transportation; and Substitution, even imperfect,
is better than the carrying of special
conveniences. Then he hurls said Patent
Dingbat into the nearest pool.

That hits directly at the weak point of the
sporting catalogues. Every once in a while
an enthusiast writes me of some new and
handy kink he is ready to swear by. It is
indeed handy; and if one could pluck it from
the nearest bush when occasion for its use
arose, it would be a joy and a delight. But
carrying it four hundred miles to that occasion
for its use is a very different matter.
The sporting catalogues are full of very
handy kinks. They are good to fool with
and think about, and plan over in the off
season; but when you pack your duffle bag
you’d better put them on a shelf.

Occasionally, but mighty seldom, you will
find that something you need very much has
gone into pile No. 3. Make a note of it.
But do not be too hasty to write it down
as part of your permanent equipment.[28]

The first summer I spent in the Sierras
I discovered that small noon showers needed
neither tent nor slicker. So next year I left
them home, and was, off and on, plenty wet
and cold. Immediately I jumped to the
conclusion that I had made a mistake. It
has not rained since. So I decided that
sporadic heavy rains do not justify the
transportation of two cumbersome articles.
Now when it rains in daytime I don’t mind
getting a little wet—for it is soon over; and
at night an adequate shelter can be built of
the tarpaulin and a saddle blanket. In other
words the waterproofs could not pay, in the
course of say three-days’ rain in a summer,
for the trouble of their transportation during
four months.

As I have said, the average man, with the
best intentions, will not go too light, and
so I have laid especial emphasis on the necessity
of discarding the unessential. But there
exists a smaller class who rush to the opposite
extreme.

We all know the type. He professes an[29]
inordinate scorn for comfort of all sorts. If
you are out with him you soon discover that
he has a vast pride in being able to sleep on
cobblestones—and does so at the edge of
yellow pines with their long needles. He
eats badly cooked food. He stands—or perhaps
I should say poses—indifferent to a
downpour when every one else has sought
shelter. In a cold climate he brings a single
thin blanket. His slogan seems to be: “This
is good enough for me!” with the unspoken
conclusion, “if it isn’t good enough for you
fellows, you’re pretty soft.”

The queer part of it is he usually manages
to bully sensible men into his point of view.
They accept his bleak camps and voluntary
hardships because they are ashamed to be
less tough than he is. And in town they are
abashed before him when with a superior,
good-natured, and tolerant laugh he tells the
company in glee of how you brought with
you a little pillow-case to stuff with moss.
“Bootleg is good enough for me!” he cries;
and every one marvels at his woodsmanship.[30]

As a plain matter of fact this man is the
worse of two types of tenderfoot. The
greenhorn does not know better; but this
man should. He has mistaken utterly the
problem of the wilderness. The wild life is
not to test how much the human frame can
endure—although that often enough happens—but
to test how well the human wits,
backed by an enduring body, can answer the
question of comfort. Comfort means minimum
equipment; comfort means bodily ease.
The task is to balance, to reconcile these
apparently opposing ideas.

A man is skillful at woodcraft just in
proportion as he approaches this balance.
Knowing the wilderness he can be comfortable
when a less experienced man would
endure hardships. Conversely, if a man endures
hardships where a woodsman could
be comfortable, it argues not his toughness,
but his ignorance or foolishness, which is
exactly the case with our blatant friend of
the drawing-room reputation.

Probably no men endure more hardships[31]
than do those whose professions call them
out of doors. But they are unavoidable
hardships. The cowboy travels with a tin
cup and a slicker; the cruiser with a twenty-pound
pack; the prospector with a half blanket
and a sack of pilot bread—when he has
to. But on round-up, when the chuck wagon
goes along, the cow-puncher has his “roll”;
on drive with the wangan the cruiser sends
his ample “turkey”; and the prospector with a
burro train takes plenty to keep him comfortable.
Surely even the Tough Youth could
hardly accuse these men of being “soft.”

The author doing a little washing on his own account

You must in this matter consider what
your means of transportation are to be. It
would be as foolish to confine your outfit for
pack horses to the equipment you would
carry on your own back in the forests, as it
would be to limit yourself to a pack horse
outfit when traveling across country in a
Pullman car. When you have horses it is
good to carry a few—a very few—canned
goods. The corners of the kyacks will accommodate
them; and once in a blue moon[32]
a single item of luxury chirks you up wonderfully
and gives you quite a new outlook
on life. So you chuck them in, and are no
more bothered by them until the psychological
moment.

On a walking trip, however, the affair is
different. You can take canned goods, if
you want to. But their transportation
would require another Indian; another
Indian means more grub and more equipment;
and so at the last you find yourself at
the head of an unwieldy caravan. You find
it much pleasanter to cut the canned goods,
and to strike out with a single companion.

After all, it is an affair of common sense;
but even common sense when confronted by
a new problem, needs a certain directing.
The province of these articles is to offer that
direction; I do not claim that my way is the
only way, nor am I rash enough to claim it
is the best way. But it is my way, and if any
one will follow it, he will be as comfortable
and as well suited as I am, which is at least
better than going it blind.

[35]

CHAPTER III

PERSONAL EQUIPMENT

Long experience by men practically concerned
seems to prove that a rather heavy[36]
felt hat is the best for all around use. Even
in hot sun it seems to be the most satisfactory,
as, with proper ventilation, it turns the
sun’s rays better even than light straw. Witness
the Arizona cowboy on his desert
ranges. You will want a good hat, the best
in material that money can buy. A cheap
article sags in the brim, tears in the crown,
and wets through like blotting paper the
first time it rains. I have found the Stetson,
of the five to seven dollar grade, the most
satisfactory. If it is intended for woods
travel where you are likely to encounter
much brush, get it of medium brim. In
those circumstances I find it handy to buy a
size smaller than usual, and then to rip out
the sweat band. The friction of the felt
directly against the forehead and the hair
will hold it on in spite of pretty sharp tugs
by thorns and wind. In the mountains or
on the plains, you can indulge in a wider and
stiffer brim. Two buckskin thongs sewn on
either side and to tie under the “back hair”
will hold it on, even against a head wind. A[37]
test will show you how this can be. A
leather band and buckle—or miniature cinch
and latigos—gives added security. I generally
cut ample holes for ventilation. In case
of too many mosquitoes I stuff my handkerchief
in the crown.

About your neck you will want to wear a
silk kerchief. This is to keep out dust, and
to prevent your neck from becoming reddened
and chapped. It, too, should be of the
best quality. The poorer grades go to pieces
soon, and their colors are not fast. Get it
big enough. At night you will make a cap
of it to sleep in; and if ever you happen to
be caught without extra clothes where it is
very cold, you will find that the kerchief tied
around your middle, and next the skin, will
help surprisingly.

A coat is useless absolutely. A sweater is
better as far as warmth goes; a waistcoat
beats it for pockets. You will not wear it
during the day; it wads up too much to be
of much use at night. Even your trousers
rolled up make a better temporary pillow.[38]
Leave it home; and you will neither regret
it nor miss it.

For warmth, as I have said, you will have
your sweater. In this case, too, I would
impress the desirability of purchasing the
best you can buy. And let it be a heavy
one, of gray or a neutral brown.

But to my mind the best extra garment
is a good ample buckskin shirt. It is less
bulky than the sweater, of less weight, and
much warmer, especially in a wind, while
for getting through brush noiselessly it cannot
be improved upon. I do not know where
you can buy one; but in any case get it ample
in length and breadth, and without the
fringe. The latter used to possess some
significance beside ornamentation, for in
case of need the wilderness hunter could cut
from it thongs and strings as he needed
them. Nowadays a man in a fringed buckskin
shirt is generally a fake built to deceive
tourists. On the other hand a plain woodsmanlike
garment, worn loose and belted at
the waist, looks always at once comfortable[39]
and appropriate. Be sure that the skins of
which it is made are smoke tanned. The
smoke tanned article will dry soft, while the
ordinary skin is hardening to almost the consistency
of rawhide. Good buckskins are
difficult to get hold of—and it will take five
to make you a good shirt—but for this use
they last practically forever.

Of course such a garment is distinctly an
extra or outside garment. You would find
it too warm for ordinary wear. The outer
shirt of your daily habit is best made of
rather a light weight of gray flannel. Most
new campers indulge in a very thick navy
blue shirt, mainly, I believe, because it contrasts
picturesquely with a bandana around
the neck. Such a shirt almost always crocks,
is sure to fade, shows dirt, and is altogether
too hot. A lighter weight furnishes all the
protection you need to your underclothes
and turns sun quite as well. Gray is a neutral
color, and seems less often than any
other to shame you to the wash soap. A
great many wear an ordinary cotton work[40]
shirt, relying for warmth on the underclothes.
There is no great objection to this,
except that flannel is better should you get
rained on.

The true point of comfort is, however,
your underwear. It should be of wool. I
know that a great deal has been printed
against it, and a great many hygienic principles
are invoked to prove that linen, cotton,
or silk are better. But experience with all
of them merely leads back to the starting
point. If one were certain never to sweat
freely, and never to get wet, the theories
might hold. But once let linen or cotton or
silk undergarments get thoroughly moistened,
the first chilly little wind is your undoing.
You will shiver and shake before
the hottest fire, and nothing short of a complete
change and a rub-down will do you
any good.

Now, of course in the wilderness you
expect to undergo extremes of temperature,
and occasionally to pass unprotected through
a rainstorm or a stream. Then you will discover[41]
that wool dries quickly; that even when
damp it soon warms comfortably to the body.
I have waded all day in early spring freshet
water with no positive discomfort except for
the cold ring around my legs which marked
the surface of the water.

And if you are wise, you will wear full
long-sleeved woolen undershirts even on a
summer trip. If it is a real trip, you are
going to sweat anyway, no matter how you
strip down to the work. And sooner or later
the sun will dip behind a cloud or a hill; or
a cool breezelet will wander to you resting
on the slope; or the inevitable chill of evening
will come out from the thickets to greet
you—and you will be very glad of your
woolen underwear.

A great many people go to the opposite
extreme. They seem to think that because
they are to live in the open air, they will
probably freeze. As a consequence of this
delusion, they purchase underclothes an inch
thick. This is foolishness, not only because
such a weight is unnecessary and unhealthful,[42]
but also—even if it were merely a question
of warmth—because one suit of thick
garments is not nearly so warm as two suits
of thin. Whenever the weather turns very
cold on you, just put on the extra undershirt
over the one you are wearing, and you will
be surprised to discover how much warmth
two gauze tissues—with the minute air space
between them—can give. Therefore, though
you must not fail to get full length woolen
underclothes, you need not buy them of
great weight. The thinnest Jaeger is about
right.

Two undershirts and three pairs of drawers
are all you ever will need on the most
elaborate trip. You perhaps cannot believe
that until you have gotten away from the
idea that laundry must be done all at once.
In the woods it is much handier to do it a
little at a time. Soap your outershirt at
night; rinse it in the morning; dry it on top
of your pack during the first two hours.
In the meantime wear your sweater; or, if
it is warm enough, appear in your undershirt.[43]
When you change your underclothes—which
should be one garment at a time—do
the same thing. Thus always you will
be possessed of a clean outfit without the
necessity of carrying a lot of extras.

The matter of trousers is an important
one; for unless you are possessed of abundant
means of transportation, those you
have on will be all you will take. I used to
include an extra pair, but got over it. Even
when trout fishing I found that by the time
I had finished standing around the fire cooking,
or yarning, I might have to change the
underdrawers, but the trousers themselves
had dried well enough. And patches are not
too difficult a maneuver.

The almost universal wear in the West
is the copper-riveted blue canvas overall.
They are very good in that they wear well.
Otherwise they are stiff and noisy in the
brush. Kersey is excellent where much wading
is to be done or much rainy weather
encountered—in fact it is the favorite “driving”
trousers with rivermen—but like all[44]
woven woolen materials it “picks out” in bad
brush. Corduroy I would not have as a
gift. It is very noisy, and each raindrop
that hits it spreads at once to the size of a
silver dollar. I verily believe an able pair of
corduroys can, when feeling good, soak up
ten pounds of water. Good moleskin dries
well, and until it begins to give out is soft
and tough. But it is like the one-hoss shay:
when it starts to go, it does the job up completely
in a few days. The difficulty is to
guess when that moment is due to arrive.
Anything but the best quality is worthless.
Khaki has lately come into popularity. It
wears remarkably well, dries quickly, and is
excellent in all but one particular: it shows
every spot of dirt. A pair of khakis three
days along on the trail look as though they
had been out a year. The new green khaki
is a little better. Buckskin is all right until
you get it wet, then you have—temporarily—enough
material to make three pairs
and one for the boy.

The best trousers I know of is a combination[45]
of the latter two materials. I bought
a pair of the ordinary khaki army riding
breeches, and had a tailor cover them completely—fore,
aft, and sideways—with some
good smoke-tanned buckskin I happened to
have. It took a skin and a half. These I
have worn now for three seasons, in all kinds
of country, in all kinds of weather, and they
are to-day as good as when I constructed
them. In still hunting they are noiseless;
horseback they do not chafe; in cold weather
they are warm, and the hot sun they turn.
The khaki holds the stretch of buckskin when
wet—as they have been for a week at a time.
Up to date the smoke tan has dried them
soft. Altogether they are the most satisfactory
garment of this kind I have experimented
with.

There remains the equally important subject
of footwear.

Get heavy woolen lumberman’s socks, and
wear them in and out of season. They are
not one whit hotter on the feet than the
thinnest you can buy, for the impervious[46]
leather of the shoe is really what keeps in
the animal heat—the sock has little to do
with it. You will find the soft thick wool
an excellent cushion for a long tramp; and
with proper care to avoid wrinkles, you will
never become tender-footed nor chafed. At
first it seems ridiculous to draw on such thick
and apparently hot socks when the sun peeping
over the rim of the desert promises you
a scorching day. Nothing but actual experience
will convince you; but I am sure that
if you will give the matter a fair test, you
will come inevitably to my conclusion.

If a man were limited to a choice between
moccasins and shoes, it would be very difficult
to decide wisely which he should take.
Each has its manifest advantages over the
other, and neither can entirely take the place
of the other.

The ideal footwear should give security,
be easy on the feet, wear well, and give absolute
protection. These qualities I have
named approximately in the order of their
importance.[47]

Security of footing depends on the nature
of the ground over which you are traveling.
Hobnails only will hold you on a slope covered
with pine needles, for instance; both
leather and buckskin there become as slippery
as glass. In case of smooth rocks, however,
your hobnails are positively dangerous,
as they slide from under you with all the
vicious force and suddenness of unaccustomed
skates. Clean leather is much better,
and buckskin is the best of all. Often in
hunting deer along the ledges of the deep
box cañons I, with my moccasins, have
walked confidently up slants of smooth rock
on which my hobnailed companion was actually
forced to his hands and knees. Undoubtedly
also a man carrying a pack
through mixed forest is surer of his footing
and less liable to turned ankles in moccasins
than in boots. My experience has been that
with the single exception mentioned, I have
felt securer in the buckskin.

As for ease to the feet, that is of course
a matter of opinion. Undoubtedly at first[48]
the moccasin novice is literally a tenderfoot.
But after astonishingly few days of practice
a man no longer notices the lack of a sole.
I have always worn moccasins more or less
in the woods, and now can walk over pebbles
or knife-edge stones without the slightest
discomfort. In fact the absence of rolling
and slipping in that sort of shifting footing
turns the scale quite the other way.

“Mountain on mountain towering high,
And a valley in between”

The matter of wear is not so important.
It would seem at first glance that the one
thin layer of buckskin would wear out
before the several thick layers of a shoe’s
sole. Such is not always the case. A good
deal depends on the sort of ground you
cover. If you wet moccasins, and then walk
down hill with them over granite shale, you
can get holes to order. Boots wear rapidly
in the same circumstances. On the other
hand I have on at this moment a pair of
mooseskin moccasins purchased three years
ago at a Hudson’s Bay Company’s post,
which have seen two summers’ off and on
service in the Sierras. Barring extraordinary[49]
conditions, I should say that each in
its proper use, a pair of boots and a pair of
moccasins would last about the same length
of time. The moccasin, however, has this
advantage: it can be readily patched, and
even a half dozen extra pairs take up little
room in the pack.

Absolute protection must remain a tentative
term. No footwear I have succeeded
in discovering gives absolute protection.
Where there is much work to be done in
the water, I think boots are the warmest and
most comfortable, though no leather is perfectly
waterproof. Moccasins then become
slimpsy, stretched, and loathsome. So likewise
moccasins are not much good in damp
snow, though in dry snow they are unexcelled.

In my own practice I wear boots on a
horseback trip, and carry moccasins in my
pack for general walking. In the woods I
pack four pair of moccasins. In a canoe,
moccasins of course.

Do not make the common mistake of[50]
getting tremendously heavy boots. They
are clumsy to place, burdensome to carry,
and stiff and unpliable to the chafing point.
The average amateur woodsman seems to
think a pair of elephantine brogans is the
proper thing—a sort of badge of identification
in the craft. If he adds big hobnails
to make tracks with, he is sure of himself. A
medium weight boot, of medium height, with
medium heavy soles armed only with the
small Hungarian hobnail is about the proper
thing. Get them eight inches high; supplied
with very large eyelets part way, then the
heaviest hooks, finishing with two more eyelets
at the top. The latter will prevent the
belt-lacing you will use as shoestrings from
coming unhooked.

You will see many advertisements of
waterproof leather boots. No such thing is
made. Some with good care will exclude
water for a while, if you stay in it but a few
minutes at a time, but sooner or later as the
fibers become loosened the water will penetrate.
In the case of the show window[51]
exhibit of the shoe standing in a pan of
water, pressure of the foot and ground
against the leather is lacking, which of
course makes all the difference. This porosity
is really desirable. A shoe wholly
waterproof would retain and condense the
perspiration to such an extent that the feet
would be as wet at the end of the day. Such
is the case with rubber boots. All you want
is a leather that will permit you to splash
through a marsh, a pool, or a little stream,
and will not seek to emulate blotting paper
in its haste to become saturated.

Of the boots I have tried, and that means
a good many, I think the Putman boot and
the river driver’s boot, made by A. A. Cutter
of Eau Claire, Wis., are made of the most
durable material. The Putman boot is the
more expensive; and in the case of the three
pairs I know of personally, the sewing has
been defective. The material, however,
wears remarkably well, and remains waterproof
somewhat longer than any of the
others. On the other hand the Cutter shoe[52]
is built primarily for rivermen and timber
cruisers of the northern forests, and is at
once cheap and durable. It has a brace of
sole leather about the heel which keeps the
latter upright and prevents it running over.
It is an easier shoe on the foot than any of
the others, but does not remain waterproof
quite so long as the Putman. Although,
undoubtedly, many other makes are as good,
you will not go astray in purchasing one of
these two.

No shoe is waterproof for even a short
time in wet snow. Rubber is then the only
solution, usually in the shape of a shoe rubber
with canvas tops. Truth to tell, melting
snow is generally so very cold that you will
be little troubled with interior condensation.
Likewise many years’ experience in grouse
hunting through the thickets and swamps of
Michigan drove me finally to light hip rubber
boots. The time was always the autumn;
the place was always more or less muddy and
wet—in spots of course—and there was
always the greater or lesser possibility of[53]
snow. My native town was a great grouse
shooting center, and all hunters, old and
young, came to the same conclusion.

But wet snow, such hunting, and of
course the duck marsh, seem to me the only
excuses for rubber. Trout fishing is more
comfortable in woolen than in waders. The
latter are clumsy and hot. I have known
of two instances of drowning because the
victims were weighted down by them. And
I should much prefer getting wet from
without than from within.

You will have your choice of three kinds
of moccasin—the oil-tanned shoe pac, the
deerhide, and the moosehide.

The shoe pac is about as waterproof as
the average waterproof shoe, and would be
the best for all purposes were it not for the
fact that its very imperviosity renders it too
hot. In addition continuous wear affects
the oil in the tanning process to produce
rather an evil odor. The shoe pacs are very
useful, however, and where I carry but two
pairs of moccasins, one is of the oil tan.[54]
Shoe pacs can be purchased of any sporting
goods dealer.

The deerhide moccasin, in spite of its
thinner texture, wears about as well as the
moosehide, is less bulky to carry, but
stretches more when wet and is not as easy
on the feet. I use either sort as I happen
to get hold of them. Genuine buckskin or
moose is rather scarce. Commercial moccasins
with the porcupine quills and “Souvenir
of Mackinaw” on them are made by machinery
out of sheepskin. They are absolutely
useless, and last about long enough to get
out of sight of the shop. A great majority
of the moccasins sold as sportsman’s supplies
are likewise very bogus. My own wear I
have always purchased of Hudson’s Bay
posts. Undoubtedly many reliable firms
carry them; but I happen to know by personal
experience that the Putman Boot Company
of Minneapolis have the real thing.

Proceeding to more outer garments, a
waistcoat is a handy affair. In warm
weather you leave it open and hardly know[55]
you have it on; in cold weather you button
it up, and it affords excellent protection.
Likewise it possesses the advantage of
numerous pockets. These you will have
your women folk extend and deepen for
you, until your compass, notebook, pipe,
matches, and so forth fit nicely in them. As
it is to be used as an outside garment, have
the back lined. If you have shot enough
deer to get around to waistcoats, nothing
could be better by way of material than the
ever-useful buckskin.

I am no believer in waterproof garments.
Once I owned a pantasote outer coat which
I used to assume whenever it rained. Ordinarily
when it is warm enough to rain, it is
warm enough to cause you to perspire under
the exertion of walking in a pantasote coat.
This I discovered. Shortly I would get wet,
and would be quite unable to decide whether
the rain had soaked through from the outside
or I had soaked through from the inside.
After that I gave the coat away to a man
who had not tried it, and was happy. If I[56]
must walk in the rain I prefer to put on a
sweater—the rough wool of which will turn
water for some time and the texture of
which allows ventilation. Then the chances
are that even if I soak through I do not
get a reactionary chill from becoming overheated.

In camp you will know enough to go in
when it rains. When you have to sally forth
you will thrust your head through the hole
in the middle of your rubber blanket.
When thus equipped the rubber blanket is
known as a poncho, and is most useful because
it can be used for two purposes.

Horseback in a rainy country is, however,
a different matter. There transportation is
not on your back, but another’s; and sitting
a horse is not violent exercise. Some people
like a poncho. I have always found its
lower edge cold, clumsy, and wet, much inclined
to blow about, and apt to soak your
knees and the seat of your saddle. The
cowboy slicker cannot be improved upon. It
is different in build from the ordinary oilskin.[57]
Call for a “pommel slicker,” and be
sure it is apparently about two sizes too
large for you. Thus you will cover your
legs. Should you be forced to walk, a belt
around your waist will always enable you to
tuck it up like a comic opera king. It is
sure ludicrous to view, but that does not
matter.

Apropos of protecting your legs, there
remains still the question of chaparejos or
chaps. Unless you are likely to be called on
to ride at some speed through thorny brush,
or unless you expect to ride very wet indeed,
they are a useless affectation. The cowboy
needs them because he does a great deal of
riding of the two kinds just mentioned.
Probably you will not. I have had perhaps
a dozen occasions to put them on. If you
must have them, get either oil-tanned or
hair chaps. Either of these sheds water like
a tin roof. The hair chaps will not last long
in a thorny country.

You will need furthermore a pair of
gloves of some sort, not for constant wear,[58]
nor merely for warmth, but to protect you
in the handling of pack ropes, lead ropes,
and cooking utensils. A good buckskin
gauntlet is serviceable, as the cuffs keep the
cold breezes from playing along your forearm
to your shoulder, and exclude the dust.
When you can get hold of the army gauntlet,
as you sometimes can in the military
stores, buy them. Lacking genuine buckskin,
the lighter grades of “asbestos” yellow
tan are the best. They cost about two dollars.
To my notion a better rig is an ordinary
pair of short gloves, supplemented by
the close-fitting leather cuffs of a cowboy’s
outfit. The latter hold the wrist snugly,
exclude absolutely chill and dirt, and in
addition save wear and soiling of the shirt
cuff. They do not pick up twigs, leaves,
and rubbish funnel wise, as a gauntlet cuff is
apt to do.

That, I think, completes your wearing
apparel. Let us now take up the contents
of your pockets, and your other personal
belongings.[59]

Minimum for comfort		Maximum
	Felt hat	Felt hat
	Silk kerchief	Silk kerchief
	Waistcoat	Waistcoat
	Buckskin shirt or sweater	Buckskin shirt and sweater
	Gray flannel shirt	Gray flannel shirt
	2 undershirts and drawers	2 undershirts, 3 drawers (includes one suit you wear)
	Trousers—buckskin over khaki	Trousers
	3 pairs heavy socks	4 pairs socks
	3 pairs moccasins	1 pair boots
	or	Moccasins
	1 pair boots	Slicker
	1 pair moccasins	Gloves and leather cuffs
	Gloves and leather cuffs

[63]

CHAPTER IV

PERSONAL EQUIPMENT

(Continued)

[64]

One of the mishaps to be expected

The main supply you will pack in some
sort of waterproof receptacle. I read a
story recently in which a man was recognized
as a true woodsman because he carried his
matches in a bottle. He must have had good
luck. The cardinal principle of packing is
never to carry any glassware. Ninety and
nine days it may pass safely, but the hundredth
will smash it as sure as some people’s
shooting. And then you have jam, or chili
powder, or syrup, or whiskey, all over the
place—or else no matches. Any good screw
top can—or better still, two telescoping
tubes—is infinitely better.

The day’s supply you will put in your
pocket. A portion can go in a small waterproof
match safe; but as it is a tremendous
nuisance to be opening such a contrivance
every time you want a smoke, I should
advise you to stick a block in your waistcoat
pocket, where you can get at them easily.
If you are going a-wading, and pockets are
precarious, you will find your hat band
handy.[65]

The waterproof pocket safe is numerous
on the market. A ten-gauge brass shell will
just chamber a twelve-gauge. Put your
matches in the twelve-gauge, and telescope
the ten over it. Abercrombie & Fitch, of
New York, make a screw top safe of rubber,
which has the great advantage of floating if
dropped, but it is too bulky and the edges
are too sharp. The Marble safe, made by
the Marble Axe Company, is ingenious and
certainly waterproof; but if it gets bent in
the slightest degree, it jams, and you can
no longer screw it shut. Therefore I consider
it useless for this reason. A very convenient
and cheap emergency contrivance is
the flint and steel pocket cigar lighter to be
had at most cigar stores. With it as a reserve
you are sure of a fire no matter how
wet the catastrophe.

Your knife should be a medium size two-bladed
affair, of the best quality. Do not
get it too large and heavy. You can skin and
quarter a deer with an ordinary jackknife.
Avoid the “kit” knives. They are mighty[66]
handy contraptions. I owned one with two
blades, a thoroughly practicable can opener,
an awl or punch, a combined reamer, nail
pull and screwdriver, and a corkscrew. It
was a delight for as long as it lasted. The
trouble with such knives is that they are too
round, so that sooner or later they are absolutely
certain to roll out of your pocket and
be lost. It makes no difference how your
pockets are constructed, nor how careful you
are, that result is inevitable. Then you will
feel badly—and go back to your old flat two-bladed
implement that you simply cannot
lose.

A butcher knife of good make is one of
the best and cheapest of sheath knives. The
common mistake among amateur hunters is
that of buying too heavy a knife with too
thick a blade. Unless you expect to indulge
in hand to hand conflicts, or cut brush, such
a weapon is excessive. I myself have carried
for the last seven years a rather thin and
broad blade made by the Marble Axe Company
on the butcher knife pattern. This[67]
company advertises in its catalogue a knife
as used by myself. They are mistaken. The
knife I mean is a longer bladed affair, called
a “kitchen or camp knife.” It is a most
excellent piece of steel, holds an edge well,
and is useful alike as a camp and hunting
knife. The fact that I have killed some
thirty-four wild boars with it shows that it
is not to be despised as a weapon.

Your compass should be large enough for
accuracy, with a jewel movement. Such an
instrument can be purchased for from one
to two dollars. It is sheer extravagance to
go in for anything more expensive unless
you are a yachtsman or intend to run survey
lines.

I have hesitated much before deciding to
say anything whatever of the sporting outfit.
The subject has been so thoroughly discussed
by men so much more competent than
myself; there are so many theories with
which I confess myself not at all conversant,
and my own experience has been so limited
in the variety of weapons and tackle, that I[68]
hardly felt qualified to speak. However, I
reflected that this whole series of articles
does not pretend to be in any way authoritative,
nor does it claim to present the only or
the best equipment in any branch of wilderness
travel, but only to set forth the results
of my own twenty years more or less of
pretty steady outdoor life. So likewise it
may interest the reader to hear about the
contents of my own gunrack, even though
he himself would have chosen much more
wisely.

My rifle is a .30-.40 box magazine Winchester,
with Lyman sights. This I have
heard is not a particularly accurate gun.
Also it is stated that after a few hundred
shots it becomes still more inaccurate because
of a residue which only special process can
remove from the rifling. This may be. I
only know that my own rifle to-day, after
ten years’ service, will still shoot as closely
as I know how to hold it, although it has
sixty-four notches on its stock and has probably
been fired first and last—at big game,[69]
small game, and targets—upward of a thousand
times. I use the Lyman aperture sight
except in the dusk of evening, when a folding
bar sight takes its place. At the time I
bought this rifle the .33 and .35 had not been
issued, and I thought, and still think, the
.30-.30 too light for sure work on any animal
larger than a deer. I have never used the
.35, but like the .33 very much. The old
low-power guns I used to shoot a great deal,
but have not for some years.

The handiest weapon for a woods trip
where small game is plentiful is a single-shot
pistol. Mine is a Smith & Wesson, blued,
six-inch barrel, shooting the .22 caliber long-rifle
cartridge. An eight-inch barrel is commonly
offered by the sporting dealers, but
the six-inch is practically as accurate, and
less cumbersome to carry. The ammunition
is compact and light. With this little pistol
I have killed in plenty ducks, geese, grouse,
and squirrels, so that at times I have gone
two or three months without the necessity of
shooting a larger weapon. Such a pistol[70]
takes practice, however, and a certain knack.
You must keep at it until you can get four
out of five bullets in a three-inch bull’s-eye
at twenty yards before you can even hope
to accomplish much in the field.

My six-shooter is a .45 Colt, New Service
model. It is fitted with Lyman revolver
sights. Originally it was a self-cocker, but
I took out the dog and converted it to single
action. The trigger pull on the double
action is too heavy for me, and when I came
to file it down, I found the double action
caused a double jerk disconcerting to steady
holding. Now it goes off smoothly and
almost at a touch—the only conditions under
which I can do much with a revolver. It is
a very reliable weapon indeed, balances better
than the single-action model, and possesses
great smashing power. I have killed
three deer in their tracks with it, and much
smaller game. This summer, however, I
had the opportunity of shooting a good deal
with two I like better. One is the Officer’s
Model Colt, chambered to shoot interchangeably[71]
either the .38 Colt long or short,
or the .38 Smith & Wesson special. In finish
it is a beautiful weapon, its grip fits the
hand, its action is smooth, and it is wonderfully
accurate. The other is the special target
.44 Russian. The automatics I do not
care for simply because I never learned to
shoot with the heavier trigger pull necessary
to their action.

I have two shotguns. One I have shot
twenty-one years. It has killed thousands
of game birds, is a hard hitter, throws an
excellent pattern, and is as strong and good
as the day it was bought. I use it to-day for
every sort of shooting except ducks, though
often I have had it in the blinds lacking the
heavier weapon. It is doubtful if there are
in use to-day many guns with longer service,
counting not so much the mere years of its
performance, as the actual amount of hunting
it has done. The time of its construction
was before the days of the hammerless. It
was made by W. & C. Scott & Sons, is 16
gauge, and cost $125. My other is a heavily[72]
choked Parker twelve. It I use for wild
fowl, and occasionally at the trap.

The main point with guns, no matter what
the kind, is to keep them in good shape.
After shooting, clean them, no matter how
tired you may be. It is no great labor. In
the field a string cleaner will do the business,
but at once when you get to permanent
camp use a rod and elbow grease. In a
damp country, oil them afresh every day;
so they will give you good service. The
barrels of my 16 are as bright as new. The
cleaning rods you can put in your leather
fishing-rod case.

Now all these things of which we have
made mention must be transported. The
duffle bag is the usual receptacle for them.
It should be of some heavy material, waterproofed,
and should not be too large. A
good one is of pantasote, with double top
to tie. One of these went the length of a
rapids, and was fished out without having
shipped a drop. On a horseback trip, however,
such a contrivance is at once unnecessary[73]
and difficult to pack. It is too long and
stiff to go easily in the kyacks, and does not
agree well with the bedding on top.

This is really no great matter. The heavy
kyacks, and the tarpaulin over everything,
furnish all needed protection against wet
and abrasion. A bag of some thinner and
more pliable material is quite as good.
Brown denim, unbleached cotton, or even a
clean flour sack, are entirely adequate. You
will find it handy to have them built with
puckering strings. The strings so employed
will not get lost, and can be used as a loop
to hang the outfit from a branch when in
camp.

A similar but smaller bag is useful to be
reserved entirely as a toilet bag. Tar soap
in a square—not round—celluloid case is the
most cleansing. A heavy rubber band will
hold the square case together.[2] The tooth
brush should also have its case. Tooth wash
comes in glass, which is taboo; tooth powder[74]
is sure sooner or later to leak out. I like best
any tooth soap which is sold in handy flat
tin boxes, and cannot spill. If you are sensible
you will not be tenderfoot enough to go
in for the discomfort of a new beard.
Razors can be kept from rusting by wrapping
them in a square of surgeon’s oiled silk.
Have your towel of brown crash—never of
any white material. The latter is so closely
woven that dirt gets into the very fiber of it,
and cannot be washed out. Crash, however,
is of looser texture, softens quickly, and does
not show every speck of dust. If you have
the room for it, a rough towel, while not
absolutely necessary, is nevertheless a great
luxury.

By way of medicines, stick to the tablet
form. A strong compact medicine case is
not expensive. It should contain antiseptics,
permanganate for snake bites, a laxative,
cholera remedy, quinine, and morphine. In
addition antiseptic bandages and rubber or
surgeon’s plaster should be wrapped in oiled
silk and included in the duffle outfit.[75]

The fly problem is serious in some sections
of the country and at some times of year. A
head net is sometimes useful about camp or
riding in the open—never when walking in
the woods. The ordinary mosquito bar is
too fragile. One of bobbinet that fits ingeniously
is very effective. This and gloves
will hold you immune—but you cannot
smoke, nor spit on the bait.

The two best fly dopes of the many I have
tried are a commercial mixture called “lollacapop,”
and Nessmuk’s formula. The lollacapop
comes in tin boxes, and so is handy to
carry, but does not wear quite as well as the
other. Nessmuk’s dope is:

It is most effective. A dab on each cheek
and one behind each ear will repel the fly
of average voracity, while a full coating
will save you in the worst circumstances. A
single dose will last until next wash time.
It is best carried in the tiny “one drink”[76]
whiskey flasks, holding, I suppose, two or
three ounces. One flask full will last you
all summer. At first the pine tar smell will
bother you, but in a short time you will get
to like it. It will call up to your memory
the reaches of trout streams, and the tall still
aisles of the forests.

[79]

CHAPTER V

CAMP OUTFIT

Nowadays, however, another and better
material is to be had. It is the stuff balloons
are made of, and is called balloon silk. I
believe, for shelter purposes, it undergoes
a further waterproofing process, but of this[80]
I am not certain. A tent of the size mentioned,
instead of weighing twenty-five
pounds, pulls the scales down at about eight.
Furthermore, it does not absorb moisture, and
is no heavier when wet than when dry. One
can touch the inside all he wishes without rendering
it pervious. The material is tough
and enduring.

“Bed in the bush with stars to see”

“A” Tent Pitched as Shelter.

I have one which I have used hard for
five years, not only as a tent, but as a canoe
lining, a sod cloth, a tarpaulin, and a pack
canvas. To-day it is as serviceable as ever,
and excepting for inevitable soiling, two
small patches represents its entire wear and
tear.[81]

“A” Tent Pitched Between Two Trees.

Abercrombie & Fitch, who make this tent,
will try to persuade you, if you demand protection
against mosquitoes, to let them sew
on a sod-cloth of bobbinet and a loose long
curtain of the same material to cover the
entrance. Do not allow it. The rig is all
right as long as there are plenty of flies.
But suppose you want to use the tent in a
flyless land? There still blocks your way
that confounded curtain of bobbinet, fitting
tightly enough so that you have almost to
crawl when you enter, and so arranged that
it is impossible to hang it up out of the way.
The tent itself is all right, but its fly rigging
is all wrong.[82]

I have found that a second tent built of
cheesecloth, and without any opening whatever,
is the best scheme. Tapes are sewn
along its ridge. These you tie to the ridge
pole or rope of the tent—on the inside of
course. The cheesecloth structure thus
hangs straight down. When not in use it is
thrust to one side or the other. If flies get
thick, you simply go inside and spread it
out. It should be made somewhat larger in
the wall than the tent so that you can weight
its lower edge with fishing rods, rifles, boots,
sticks, or rocks. Nothing can touch you.

“A” Tent Pitched on Treeless Ground.

The proper shape for a tent is a matter[83]
of some discussion. Undoubtedly the lean-to
is the ideal shelter so far as warmth goes.
You build your fire in front, the slanting
wall reflects the heat down and you sleep
warm even in winter weather. In practice,
however, the lean-to is not always an undiluted
joy. Flies can get in for one thing,
and a heavy rainstorm can suck around the
corner for another. In these circumstances
four walls are highly desirable.

Method of Tightening Rope.

On the other hand a cold snap makes a
wall tent into a cold storage vault. Tent
stoves are little devils. They are either red
hot or stone cold, and even when doing their[84]
best, there is always a northwest corner that
declines to be thawed out. A man feels the
need of a camp fire, properly constructed.

For three seasons I have come gradually
to thinking that an A or wedge tent is about
the proper thing. In event of that rainstorm
or those flies its advantages are obvious.
When a cold snap comes along, you
simply pull up the stakes along one side,
tie the loops of that wall to the same stakes
that hold down the other wall—and there is
your lean-to all ready for the fire.

When you get your tent made, have them
insert grommets in each peak. Through
these you will run a light line. By tying
each end of the line to a tree or sapling, staking
out the four corners of your tent, and
then tightening the line by wedging under it
(and outside the tent, of course) a forked
pole, your tent is up in a jiffy. Where you
cannot find two trees handily placed, poles
crossed make good supports front and rear.
The line passes over them and to a stake in
the ground. These are quick pitches for a[85]
brief stop. By such methods an A tent is
erected as quickly as a “pyramid,” a miner’s,
or any of the others. In permanent camp,
you will cut poles and do a shipshape job.

Tarpaulin,
Open and Folded.

Often, however, you will not need to burden
yourself with even as light a tent as I
have described. This is especially true on
horseback trips in the mountains. There
you will carry a tarpaulin. This is a strip
of canvas or pantasote 6 x 16 or 17 feet.
During the daytime it is folded and used to
protect the top packs from dust, wet, and[86]
abrasion. At night you spread it, make your
bed on one half of it, and fold the other half
over the outside. This arrangement will
fend quite a shower. In case of continued
or heavy rain, you stretch a pack rope between
two trees or crossed poles, and suspend
the tarp over it tent wise, tying down the
corners by means of lead ropes. Two tarps
make a commodious tent. If you happen to
be alone, a saddle blanket will supplement
the tarp to give some sort of protection to
your feet, and, provided it is stretched
tightly, will shed quite a downpour.

The tarp, as I have said, should measure
6 x 16. If of canvas, do not get it too heavy,
as then it will be stiff and hard to handle.
About 10-ounce duck is the proper thing.
After you have bought it, lay it out on the
floor folded once, as it will be when you
have made your bed in it. To the lower
half and on both edges, as it lies there, sew a
half dozen snap hooks. To the upper canvas,
but about six inches in from the edge,
sew corresponding rings for the snap hooks.[87]
Thus on a cold night you can bundle yourself
in without leaving cracks along the edges
to admit the chilly air.

In the woods you will want furthermore
a rubber blanket. This is unnecessary when
the tarpaulin is used. Buy a good poncho.
Poor quality sticks badly should it chance
to become overheated by the sun.

A six or seven pound blanket of the best
quality is heavy enough. The gray army
blanket, to be purchased sometimes at the
military stores, is good, as is also the “three-point”
blanket issued by the Hudson’s Bay
Company. The cost is from $6 to $8. One
is enough. You will find that another suit
of underwear is as warm as an extra blanket,
and much easier to carry. Sleeping
bags I do not care for. They cannot be
drawn closely to the body, and the resulting
air space is difficult to warm up. A blanket
you can hug close to you, thus retaining all
the animal heat. Beside which a sleeping bag
is heavier and more of a bother to keep
well aired. If you like the thing occasionally,[88]
a few horse blanket pins will make one
of your blanket.

It is the purpose of this book to deal
with equipments rather than with methods.
There are a great many very competent
treatises telling you how to build your
fire, pitch your tent, and all the rest of
it. I have never seen described the woodsmen’s
method of using a blanket, however.
Lie flat on your back. Spread the
blanket over you. Now raise your legs rigid
from the hip, the blanket of course draping
over them. In two swift motions tuck first
one edge under your legs from right to left,
then the second edge under from left to
right, and over the first edge. Lower your
legs, wrap up your shoulders, and go to
sleep. If you roll over, one edge will unwind
but the other will tighten.

In the forest your rubber and woolen
blankets will comprise your bed. You will
soften it with pine needles or balsam. On a
horseback trip, however, it is desirable to
carry also an ordinary comforter, or quilt,[89]
or “sogun.” You use it under you. Folded
once, so as to afford two thicknesses, it goes
far toward softening granite country. By
way of a gentle hint, if you will spread your
saddle blankets beneath your tarp, they will
help a lot, and you will get none of the
horsey aroma.

Collapsible Canvas Bucket
and Wash Basin.

A pillow can be made out of a little bag
of muslin or cotton or denim. In it you
stuff an extra shirt, or your sweater, or some
such matter. A very small “goose hair”
pillow may be thrust between the folds of
your blanket when you have a pack horse.
It will not be large enough all by itself, but
with a sweater or a pair of trousers beneath
it will be soft and easy to a tired head.
Have its cover of brown denim.

On a pack trip a pail is a necessity which
is not recognized in the forest, where you
can dip your cup or kettle direct into the
stream. Most packers carry a galvanized
affair, which they turn upside down on top of
the pack. There it rattles and bangs against
every overhead obstruction on the trail, and[90]
ends by being battered to leakiness. A
bucket made of heavy brown duck, with a
wire hoop hemmed in by way of rim, and
a light rope for handle carries just as much
water, holds it as well, and has the great
advantage of collapsing flat.

A wash basin built on the same principle
is often a veritable godsend, and a man can
even carry a similar contrivance big enough
for a washtub without adding appreciably
to the bulk or weight of his animal’s pack.
Crushed flat all three take up in thickness
about the space of one layer of blanket, and[91]
the weight of the lot is just a pound and a
half.

Folding Lantern.

The Stonebridge folding candle lantern
is the best I know of. It folds quite flat,
has four mica windows, and is easily put
together. The measurements, folded, are
only 6 x 4 inches by 1-2 inch thick, and its
weight but 13 ounces. The manufacturers
make the same lantern in aluminum, but I
found it too easily bent to stand the rough
handling incidental to a horse trip. The
steel lantern costs one dollar.[3]

If you carry an axe at all, do not try to
compromise on a light one. I never use such
an implement in the woods. A light hatchet
is every bit as good for the purpose of firewood,
and better when it is a question of tent
poles or pegs. Read Nessmuk’s Woodcraft
on this subject. The Marble Safety Axe
is the best, both because of the excellent
steel used in its manufacture, and because of
the ease of its transportation. I generally[92]
carry mine in my hip pocket. Get the metal
handle and heaviest weight. I have traveled
a considerable part of the Canadian forests
with no other implement of the sort.

On a horseback trip in the mountains,
however, this will not suffice. Often and
often you will be called on to clear trail, to
cut timber for trail construction or to
make a footing over some ultra-tempestuous
streamlet. You might peck away until
further orders with your little hatchet without
much luck. Then you need an axe—not
a “half axe,” nor a “three-quarter axe”—but
a full five-pound weapon with an edge you
could shave with. And you should know
how to use it. “Chewing a log in two” is a
slow and unsatisfactory business.

To keep this edge you will carry a file
and a water whetstone. Use your hatchet as
much as possible, take care of how and what
you chop, and do not wait until the axe gets
really dull before having recourse to your file
and stone. It is a long distance to a grindstone.
Wes Thompson expressed the situation[93]
well. He watched the Kid’s efforts
for a moment in silence.

“Kid,” said he sorrowfully at last, “you’ll
have to make your choice. Either you do
all the chopping or none of it.”

Needle, thread, a waxed end, and a piece
of buckskin for strings and patches completes
the ordinary camp outfit. Your repair
kit needs additions when applied to
mountain trips, but that question will come
up under another heading.

[97]

CHAPTER VI

THE COOK OUTFIT

I have experimented with about every
material going, and used all sorts of dishes.
Once I traveled ten days, and did all my
cooking in a tip cup and on a willow switch—nor
did I live badly. An ample outfit, however,
judiciously selected, need take up little
bulk or weight.

Tin is the lightest material, but breaks up
too easily under rough usage. Still, it is
by no means to be despised. With a little
care I have made tin coffee pots and tin
pails last out a season. When through, I
discarded them. And my cups and plates
are of tin to this day.[98]

Sheet iron had its trial—a brief one. The
theory was all right, but in practice I soon
found that for a long time whatever is boiled
in sheet iron pails takes on a dark purplish-black
tinge disagreeable to behold. This
modifies, but never entirely disappears, with
use. But also sheet iron soon burns out and
develops pin holes in the bottom.

Agate or enamel ware is pleasing to the
eye and easily kept clean. But a hard blow
means a crack or chip in the enameled surface,
and hard blows are frequent. An
enamel ware kettle, or even cup or plate,
soon opens seams and chasms. Then it may
as well be thrown away, for you can never
keep it clean.

A very light iron pot is durable and cooks
well. Two of these of a size to nest together,
with the coffee pot inside, make not a bad
combination for a pack trip. Most people
are satisfied with them; but for a perfect and
balanced equipment even light-gauge iron
is still too heavy.

For a long time I had no use for aluminum.[99]
It was too soft, went to pieces, and
got out of shape too easily. Then by good
fortune I chanced to buy a pail or kettle of
an aluminum alloy. That one pail I have
used constantly for five years on all sorts of
trips. It shows not a single dent or bend,
and inside is as bright as a dollar. The ideal
material was found.

Short experience taught me, however,
that even this aluminum alloy was not best
for every item of the culinary outfit.

The coffee pot, kettles, and plates may be
of the alloy, for it has the property of holding
heat, but by that very same token an
aluminum cup is an abomination. The
coffee or tea cools before you can get your
lips next the metal. For the same reason
spoons and forks are better of steel; and of
course it stands to reason that the cutting
edge of a knife must be of that material.
The aluminum frying pans I have found
unsatisfactory for several reasons. The
metal is not porous enough to take grease,
as does the steel pan, so that unless watched[100]
very closely flapjacks, mush, and the like are
too apt to stick and burn. In the second
place they get too hot, unless favored with
more than their share of attention. In the
third place, in the case of the two I have
owned, I have been unable to keep the patent
handle on for more than three weeks after
purchase.

Premising, then, the above considerations,
as regards material, let us examine now the
kind and variety necessary to the most elaborate
trip you will take, at the same time
keeping in mind the fact that you can travel
with merely a tin cup if you have to.

Do not be led astray into buying a made-up
outfit. The two-man set consists of a
coffee pot, two kettles, a fry pan, two each
of plates, cups, soup bowls, knives, forks,
teaspoons, and dessert spoons—everything
of aluminum. All fit into the largest kettle,
plates and fry pan on top, and weigh but five
pounds. The idea is good, but you will be
able to modify it to advantage.[4]

[101]

Get for a two-man outfit two tin cups
with the handles riveted, not soldered. They
will drop into the aluminum coffee pot.
Omit the soup bowls. Buy good steel knives
and forks with blackwood or horn handles.
Let the forks be four-tined, if possible.
Omit the teaspoons. Do not make the mistake
of tin dessert spoons. Purchase a half
dozen of white metal. All these things will
go inside the aluminum coffee pot, which
will nest in the two aluminum kettles. Over
the top you invert four aluminum plates
and a small tin milk pan for bread mixing
and dish washing. The latter should be of
a size to fit accurately over the top of the
larger kettle. This combination will tuck
away in a canvas case about nine inches in
diameter and nine high. You will want a
medium-size steel fry pan, with handle of
the same piece of metal—not riveted. The
latter comes off. The outfit as modified will
weigh but a pound more than the other, and
is infinitely handier.

There are several methods of cooking[102]
bread. The simplest—and the one you will
adopt on a foot trip—is to use your frying
pan. The bread is mixed, set in the warmth
a few moments to stiffen, then the frying
pan is propped up in front of the blaze.
When one side of the bread is done, you
turn it over.

The second method, and that almost universally
employed in the West, is by means
of the Dutch oven. The latter instrument is
in shape like a huge and heavy iron kettle
on short legs, and provided with a massive
iron cover. A hole is dug, a fire built in
the hole, the oven containing its bread set
in on the resultant coals, and the hole filled
in with hot earth and ashes. It makes very
good bread, but is a tremendous nuisance.
You have the weight of the machine to
transport, the hole to dig, and an extra fire
to make. It also necessitates a shovel.

Folding Aluminum Reflector Oven.

That the Westerner carries such an unwieldy
affair about with him has been
mainly, I think, because of his inability to
get a good reflector. The perfect baker of[103]
this sort should be constructed at such angles
of top and bottom that the heat is reflected
equally front and back, above and below.
This requires some mathematics. The average
reflector is built of light tin by the village
tinsmith. It throws the heat almost
anywhere. The pestered woodsman shifts
it, shifts the bread pan, shifts the loaf trying
to “get an even scald on the pesky
thing.” The bread is scorched at two corners
and raw at the other two, brown on top,
but pasty at the bottom. He burns his
hands. If he persists, he finds that a dozen
bakings tarnish the tin beyond polish, so that
at last the heat hardly reflects at all. He
probably ends by shooting it full of holes.
And next trip, being unwilling to bake in[104]
the frying pan while he has a horse to carry
for him, he takes along the same old piece
of ordnance—the Dutch oven.

“We may live without friends, we may live without books,
But civilized man cannot live without cooks”

This is no exaggeration. I have been
there myself. Until this very year I carried
a Dutch oven on my pack trips. Then I
made one more try, purchased an aluminum
baker of Abercrombie & Fitch, and have had
good bread at minimum trouble.

I realize that I seem to be recommending
this firm rather extensively, but it cannot be
helped. It is not because I know no others,
for naturally I have been purchasing sporting
goods and supplies in a great many
places and for a good many years. Nor do
I recommend everything they make. Only
along some lines they have carried practical
ideas to their logical conclusion. The Abercrombie
& Fitch balloon silk tents, food
bags, pack harness, aluminum alloys, and
reflector ovens completely fill the bill. And
as they cannot be procured elsewhere, I
must perhaps seem unduly to advertise this
one firm.[105]

Their aluminum baker, then, I found to
be a joy. I put the bread in the pan, stuck
the reflector in front of my regular cooking
fire, and went ahead with dinner. It required
absolutely no more attention. By
the time I was ready to dish up grub, the
bread was done. That was all there was to
it. The angles are correct, and the aluminum
is easily kept bright. When not in use
it folds to an inch thick, and about a foot
by a foot and a half. It weighs only about
two pounds. A heavy canvas case protects
it and the bread pan. I pack it between
blankets, and never know it is there; whereas
the Dutch oven was always a problem. The
cost was three dollars.

Food is best transported in bags. Cotton
drill, or even empty flour sacks are pretty
good on a pack horse; but in canoe and
forest traveling you will want something
waterproof. Even horseback a waterproof
bag is better, for it keeps out the dust.
Again I must refer you to Abercrombie &
Fitch. Their food bags are of light, waterproof,[106]
and durable material, and cost only
from a dollar to a dollar and a half a dozen,
according to size.

Use of Parallel Logs.

Of course on a tramp you will carry no
extra conveniences in the way of fire irons,
but will use as cooking range two green logs
laid nearly parallel, or rocks placed side by
side. But with a pack horse, there is no
reason why you should not relieve yourself
of this bother.

Usually two pieces of strap iron about
thirty inches long and an inch wide are
employed for this purpose. The ends are
rested on two stones and the fire built beneath
them. In case stones lack, a small
trench is dug, and the irons laid across that.[107]

Use of Ordinary Fire Irons.

The Ernest Britten Fire Irons.

Mr. Ernest Britten, a Forest Ranger,
has however invented a contrivance that is
much better. The irons, instead of being
made of strap iron, are of angle iron. To
the inside of the L and at each end sharpened
legs are swung on a rivet. A squared
outer corner next the angle iron prevents[108]
their spreading, but a rounded inner corner
permits their being folded flat. When
used, the legs are opened and stuck upright
in the ground, the irons being arranged parallel
at an appropriate distance from each
other. Mark these advantages: The irons
can be driven to any height from the ground
according as fuel is plenty or scarce. They
can be leveled absolutely, a thing difficult
to accomplish with stones and strap irons.
In case the ground is too hard to admit the
insertion of the legs in it, they can be folded
back, and the irons used across stones in the
manner of the old strap irons. Moreover,
and this is important, they weigh no more.

I have had presented me by Mr. Robert
Logan of New York, so simple, transportable
and efficient a device for kindling fires
that I have included it in my regular outfit.
It consists of a piece of small rubber tube
two feet or so in length, into one end of
which is forced a brass cylinder three or
four inches long. The extremity of this
brass cylinder is then beaten out so that its[109]
opening is flattened. Logan calls this instrument
an “Inspirator.”

To encourage a fire you apply the brass
nozzle to the struggling blaze, and blow
steadily through the rubber tube. The result
is an effect midway between a pair of
bellows and a Bunsen burner.

Until you have tried it you will have
difficulty in realizing how quickly wet wood
will ignite when persuaded by the Inspirator.
I have used it over five months of
camping, and never have failed to blow up
a brisk blaze in the foulest conditions of
weather and fuel. No more heavy chopping
for dry heart-wood, no more ashes in
the face empurpled by stooping, no more
frantic waving of the hat that scatters ashes.
Furthermore, the Inspirator’s use is not confined
to wet days alone. If ever you particularly
desire any individual kettle to boil
in a hurry, and that utensil sullenly declines
to do so, just direct the Inspirator beneath
it, and in a jiffy it is on the bubble. When
out of use you wrap the rubber tube around[110]
the brass nozzle and tuck it away in your
waistcoat pocket.

There remains only the necessity of cleaning
up. Get three yards or so of toweling
and cut off pieces as you need them. Keep
them washed and they will last a long time.
Borax soap and a cake of Sapolio help;
but you can clean up dishes without soap.
Long tough grass bent double makes an
excellent swab. For washing clothes I
have found nothing to equal either Fels-Naphtha
or Frank Siddal’s Soap. You soap
your garments at night, rinse them in the
morning—and the job is done. No hot
water, no boiling, little rubbing. And the
garments are really clean.[111]

[115]

CHAPTER VII

GRUB

Necessarily bulk and weight are such
important considerations that they will at[116]
once cut out much you would enjoy. Also
condensed and desiccated foods are, in a
few cases, toothsome enough to earn inclusion—and
many are not. Perishability bars
certain other sorts. But when all is said
and done there remains an adequate list
from which to choose.

However closely you confine yourself to
the bare necessities, be sure to include one
luxury. This is not so much to eat as for
the purpose of moral support. I remember
one trip in the Black Hills on which our
commissary consisted quite simply of oatmeal,
tea, salt, and sugar, and a single can
of peaches. Of course there was game.
Now if we had found ourselves confined to
meat, mush, oatmeal pones, and tea, we
should, after a little, have felt ourselves
reduced to dull monotony, and after a little
more we should have begun to long mightily
for the fleshpots of Deadwood. But that
can of peaches lurked in the back of our
minds. By its presence we were not reduced
to meat, mush, oatmeal pones, and tea.[117]
Occasionally we would discuss gravely the
advisability of opening it, but I do not believe
any one of us down deep in his heart
meant it in sober earnest. What was the
mere tickling of the palate compared with
the destruction of a symbol.

Somewhat similarly I was once on a trip
with an Englishman who, when we outfitted,
insisted on marmalade. In vain we
pointed out the fact that glass always broke.
Finally we compromised on one jar, which
we wrapped in the dish towel and packed
in the coffee pot. For five weeks that unopened
jar of marmalade traveled with us,
and the Englishman was content. Then it
got broken—as they always do. From that
time on our friend uttered his daily growl
or lament over the lack of marmalade. And,
mind you, he had already gone five weeks
without tasting a spoonful!

So include in the list your pet luxury.
Tell yourself that you will eat it just at the
psychological moment. It is a great comfort.
But to our list:[118]

Bacon is the stand-by. Get the very best
you can buy, and the leanest. In a walking
trip cut off the rind in order to reduce the
weight.

Ham is a pleasant variety if you have
room for it.

Flour.—Personally I like the whole wheat
best. It bakes easier than the white, has
more taste, and mixes with other things
quite as well. It comes in 10-pound sacks,
which makes it handy to carry.

Pancake Flour, either buckwheat or not,
makes flapjacks, of course, but also bakes
into excellent loaves, and is a fine base for
camp cake.

Boston Brown Bread Flour is self-rising,
on the principle of the flapjack flour. It
makes genuine brown bread, toothsome
quick biscuits with shortening, and a glorious
boiled or steamed pudding. If your
outfitter does not know of it, tell him it is
made at San José, California.

Cornmeal.—Get the yellow. It makes
good Johnny cake, puddings, fried mush,[119]
and unleavened corn pone, all of which are
palatable, nourishing, and easy to make. If
you have a dog with you, it is the easiest
ration for between-meat seasons. A quarter
cup swells up into an abundant meal for
the average-sized canine.

Hominy.—The coarse sort makes a good
variety.

Tapioca.—Utterly unsatisfactory over an
open fire. Don’t take it.

Rice.—I think rice is about the best
stand-by of all. In the first place, ten pounds
of rice will go farther than ten pounds of
any other food; a half cup, which weighs
small for its bulk, boils up into a half kettleful,
a quantity ample for four people. In
the second place, it contains a great percentage
of nutriment, and is good stuff to
travel on. In the third place, it is of that
sort of palatability of which one does not
tire. In the fourth place it can be served
in a variety of ways: boiled plain; boiled
with raisins; boiled with rolled oats; boiled,
then fried; made into baked puddings;[120]
baked in gems or loaves; mixed with flapjacks.
Never omit it from your list.

When you quit the trail for a day’s rest

Baking Powder.—Do not buy an unknown
brand at a country store; you will
find it bad for your insides after a very
short use. Royal and Price’s are both good.

Tea and Coffee.—Even confirmed coffee
drinkers drop away from their allegiance
after being out a short time. Tea seems to
wear better in the woods. Personally, I
never take coffee at all, unless for the benefit
of some other member of the party.

Potatoes are generally out of the question,
although you can often stick a small
sack in your kyacks. They are very grateful
when you can carry them. A desiccated
article is on the market. Soaked up it
takes on somewhat the consistency of rather
watery mashed potatoes. It is not bad.

Onions are a luxury; but, like the potatoes,
can sometimes be taken, and add
largely to flavor.

Sugar.—My experience is, that one eats
a great deal more sweets out of doors than[121]
at home. I suppose one uses up more fuel.
In any case I have many a time run out of
sugar, and only rarely brought any home
Saxin, crystallose and saccharine are all excellent
to relieve the weight in this respect.
They come as tablets, each a little larger
than the head of a pin. A tablet represents
the sweetening power of a lump of sugar.
Dropped in the tea, two of them will sweeten
quite as well as two heaping spoonfuls
and you could never tell the difference. A
man could carry in his waistcoat pocket vials
containing the equivalent of twenty-five
pounds of sugar. Their advantage in lightening
a back load is obvious.

Fats.—Lard is the poorest and least
wholesome. Cottolene is better. Olive oil
is best. The latter can be carried in a screw-top
tin. Less of it need be used than of the
others. It gives a delicious flavor to anything
fried in it.

Mush.—Rolled oats are good, but do not
agree with some people. Cream of Wheat
and Germea are more digestible. Personally[122]
I prefer to take my cereal in the form
of biscuits. It “sticks to the ribs” better.
Three-quarters of a cup of cereal will make
a full supply of mush for three people, leaving
room for mighty little else. On the
other hand, a full cup of the same cereal will
make six biscuits—two apiece for our three
people. In other words, the biscuits allow
one to eat a third more cereal in half the
bulk.

Dried Fruit.—This is another class of
food almost to be classed as condensed. It
is easily carried, is light, and when cooked
swells considerably. Raisins lead the list, as
they cook in well with any of the flour stuffs
and rice, and are excellent to eat raw as a
lunch. Dried figs come next. I do not
mean the layer figs, but those dried round
like prunes. They can be stewed, eaten
raw, or cooked in puddings. Dried apples
are good stewed, or soaked and fried in a
little sugar. Prunes are available, raw or
cooked. Peaches and apricots I do not care
for, but they complete the list.[123]

Salt and Pepper.—A little cayenne in hot
water is better than whiskey for a chill.

Cinnamon.—Excellent to sprinkle on
apples, rice, and puddings. A flavoring
to camp cake. One small box will last a
season.

Milk.—Some people like the sticky
sweetened Borden milk. I think it very
sickish and should much prefer to go without.
The different brands of evaporated
creams are palatable, but too bulky and
heavy for ordinary methods of transportation.
A can or so may sometimes be included,
however. Abercrombie & Fitch
offer a milk powder. They claim that a
spoonful in water “produces a sweet wholesome
milk.” It may be wholesome; it certainly
is sweet—but as for being milk! I
should like to see the cow that would acknowledge
it.

Syrup.—Mighty good on flapjacks and
bread, and sometimes to be carried when
animals are many. The easiest to get that
tastes like anything is the “Log Cabin”[124]
maple syrup. It comes in a can of a handy
shape.

Beans.—Another rich stand-by; rich in
sustenance, light in weight, and compressed
in bulk. Useless to carry in the mountains,
where, as a friend expressed it, “all does not
boil that bubbles.” Unless you have all day
and unlimited firewood they will not cook
in a high altitude. Lima beans are easier
cooked. A few chilis are nice to add to the
pot by way of variety.

Pilot Bread or Hardtack.—If you use it
at all—which of course must be in small
quantities for emergencies—be sure to get
the coarsest. It comes in several grades,
and the finer crumble. The coarse, however,
breaks no finer than the size of a
dollar, and so is edible no matter how badly
smashed. With raisins it makes a good
lunch.

Butter, like milk, is a luxury I do without
on a long trip. The lack is never felt after
a day or two. I believe you can get it in
air-tight cans.[125]

Macaroni is bulky, but a single package
goes a long way, and is both palatable and
nutritious. Break it into pieces an inch or
so long and stow it in a grub bag.

That finishes the list of the bulk groceries.
Canned goods, in general, are better left at
home. You are carrying the weight not
only of the vegetable, but also of the juice
and the tin. One can of tomatoes merely
helps out on one meal, and occupies enough
space to accommodate eight meals of rice;
or enough weight to balance two dozen meals
of the same vegetable. Both the space of
the kyacks and the carrying power of your
horse are better utilized in other directions.
I assume you never will be fool enough to
weight your own back with such things.

So much for common sense and theory.
As a matter of practice, and if you have
enough animals to avoid overloading, you
will generally tuck in a can here and there.
These are to be used only on great occasions,
but grace mightily holidays and very tired
times.[126]

Now some canned goods make you feel
you are really getting something worth
while; and others do not.

Corn is probably the most satisfactory of
all. It is good warmed up, made into fritters,
baked into a pudding, or mixed with
lima beans as succotash.

Peas on the other hand are no good. Too
much water, and too little pea is the main
trouble, which combines discouragingly with
the fact that a mouthful of peas is not nearly
as hearty or satisfying as a mouthful of
corn.

Tomatoes are carried extensively, but are
very bulky and heavy for what you get out
of them.

Canned Fruit is sheer mad luxury. A
handful of the dried article would equal a
half dozen cans.

Salmon.—A pleasant and compact variation
on ordinary fare. It can be eaten cold,
as it comes from the can; or can be fried or
baked.

Picnic Stuff, such as potted chicken,[127]
devilled ham and the rest of it are abominations.

Corned Beef is fair.

To sum up, I think that if I were to go
in for canned goods, I should concentrate
on corn and salmon, with one or two corned
beef on the side.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this
chapter modern desiccation of foods has
helped the wilderness traveler to some extent.
I think I have tried about everything
in this line. In the following list I shall
mention those I think good, and also those
particularly bad. Any not mentioned it
may be implied that I do not care for
myself, but am willing to admit that you
may.

Canned Eggs.—The very best thing of
this kind is made by the National Bakers’
Egg Co., of Sioux City. It is a coarse yellow
granulation and comes in one-pound
screw-top tin cans. Each can contains the
equivalent of five dozen eggs, and costs, I
think, only $1.25. A tablespoon of the powder[128]
and two of water equals an egg. With
that egg you can make omelets and scrambled
eggs, which you could not possibly tell
from the new-laid. Two cans, weighing
two pounds, will last you all summer; and
think of the delight of an occasional egg for
breakfast! The German canned eggs—Hoffmeir’s
is sold in this country—are
rather evil tasting, do not beat up light, and
generally decline sullenly to cook.

Soups.—Some of the compressed soups
are excellent. The main difficulty is that
they are put up in flimsy paper packages,
difficult to carry without breaking. Also I
have found that when you take but two kettles,
you are generally hungry enough to
begrudge one of them to anything as thin
as even the best soup. However, occasionally
a hot cupful is a good thing; and I
should always include a few packages. The
most filling and nourishing is the German
army ration called Erbswurst. It comes in
a sausage-shaped package, which is an exception
to the rule in that it is strongly[129]
constructed. You cut off an inch and boil
it. The taste is like that of a thick bean
soup. It is said to contain all the elements
of nutrition.

Knorr’s packages make good soup when
you get hold of the right sort. We have
tried them all, and have decided that they
can be divided into two classes—those that
taste like soup, and the dishwater brand.
The former comprise pea, bean, lentil, rice,
and onion; the latter, all others.

Maggi’s tablets are smaller than Knorr’s
and rather better packed. The green pea
and lentil make really delicious soup.

Bouillon capsules of all sorts I have no use
for. They serve to flavor hot water, and
that is about all.

Desiccated Vegetables come in tablets
about four inches square and a quarter of an
inch thick. A quarter of one of these tablets
makes a dish for two people. You soak it
several hours, then boil it. In general the
results are all alike, and equally tasteless and
loathsome. The most notable exception is[130]
the string beans. They come out quite like
the original vegetable, both in appearance
and taste. I always take some along.
Enough for twenty meals could be carried
in the inside pocket of your waistcoat.

Julienne, made by Prevet. A French
mixture of carrots and other vegetables cut
into strips and dried. When soaked and
boiled it swells to its original size. A half
cupful makes a meal for two. It ranks
with the string beans in being thoroughly
palatable. These two preparations are better
than canned goods, and are much more easily
carried.

Potatoes, saxin, saccharine, and crystallose
I have already mentioned.

That completes the most elaborate grub
list I should care to recommend. As to a
quantitative list, that is a matter of considerably
more elasticity. I have kept track of
the exact quantity of food consumed on a
great many trips, and have come to the conclusion
that anything but the most tentative
statements must spring from lack of experience.[131]
A man paddling a canoe, or carrying
a pack all day, will eat a great deal more
than would the same man sitting a horse. A
trip in the clear, bracing air of the mountains
arouses keener appetites than a desert journey
near the borders of Mexico, and a list of
supplies ample for the one would be woefully
insufficient for the other. The variation is
really astonishing.

Therefore the following figures must be
experimented with rather cautiously. They
represent an average of many of my own
trips.

[132]

These lists are not supposed to be “eaten
down to the bone.” A man cannot figure that
closely. If you buy just what is included in
them you will be well fed, but will probably
have a little left at the end of the month. If
you did not, you would probably begin to
worry about the twenty-fifth day. And this
does not pay. Of course if you get game and
fish, you can stay out over the month.

[135]

CHAPTER VIII

CAMP COOKERY

This chapter will not attempt to be a
camp cook-book. Plenty of the latter can
be bought. It will try to explain dishes not
found in camp cook-books, but perhaps better[136]
adapted to the free and easy culinary
conditions that obtain over an open fire and
in the open air.

After bacon gets a little old, parboil the
slices before frying them.

Bread.—The secret of frying-pan bread
is a medium stiff batter in the proportion
of one cup of flour, one teaspoon of salt, one
tablespoon of sugar, and a heaping teaspoon
of baking powder. This is poured into the
well-greased and hot pan, and set flat near
the fire. In a very few moments it will rise
and stiffen. Prop the pan nearly perpendicular
before the blaze. When done on
one side, turn over. A clean sliver or a fork
stuck through the center of the loaf will tell
you when it is done: if the sliver comes out
clean, without dough sticking to it, the baking
is finished.

In an oven the batter must be somewhat
thinner. Stiff batter makes close-grained
heavy bread; thin batter makes light and
crisp bread. The problem is to strike the
happy medium, for if too stiff the loaf is[137]
soggy, and if too thin it sticks to the pan.
Dough should be wet only at the last moment,
after the pan is ready, and should be
lightly stirred, never kneaded or beaten.

Biscuits are made in the same way, with
the addition of a dessert-spoonful of cottolene,
or a half spoonful of olive oil.

Cornbread is a mixture of half cornmeal
and half flour, with salt, baking powder, and
shortening.

Unleavened bread properly made is better
as a steady diet than any of the baking
powder products. The amateur cook is
usually disgusted with it because it turns out
either soggy or leathery. The right method,
however, results in crisp, cracker-like bread,
both satisfying and nourishing. It is made
as follows:

Take three-quarters of a cup of either
cornmeal, oatmeal, Cream of Wheat, or
Germea, and mix it thoroughly with an equal
quantity of flour. Add a teaspoonful of
salt, a tablespoonful of sugar, and a teaspoonful
of olive oil or shortening. Be[138]
sure not to exceed the amount of the latter
ingredient. Mix in just enough water to
wet thoroughly, and beat briskly; the result
should be almost crumbly. Mold biscuits
three inches across and a quarter of an inch
thick, place in a hot greased pan, and bake
before a hot fire. The result is a thoroughly
cooked, close-grained, crisp biscuit.

Corn pone is made in the same manner
with cornmeal as the basis.

Flapjack flour is mixed with water simply;
but you will find that a tablespoonful
of sugar not only adds to the flavor, but
causes it to brown crisper. It is equally good
baked in loaves. The addition of an extra
spoonful of sugar, two eggs (from your
canned desiccated eggs), raisins and cinnamon
makes a delicious camp cake. This is
known as “flapjohn”—a sort of sublimated
flapjack.

Puddings.—The general logic of a camp-baked
pudding is this:

You have first of all your base, which is
generally of rice, cornmeal, or breakfast[139]
food previously boiled; second, your filling,
which may be raisins, prunes, figs, or any
other dried fruit; third, your sweetening,
which is generally sugar, but may be syrup,
honey, or saccharine tablets; fourth, your
seasoning, which must be what you have—cinnamon,
nutmeg, lemon, etc., and last,
your coagulating material, which must be a
small portion of your egg powder. With
this general notion you can elaborate.

The portions of materials, inclusive of
other chance possessions, the arrangement
of the ingredients determines the naming
of the product. Thus you can mix your
fruit all through the pudding, or you can
place it in layers between strata of the
mixture.

As an example: Boil one-half cupful of
rice with raisins, until soft, add one-half
cupful of sugar, a half spoonful of cinnamon,
and a tablespoonful of egg powder.
Add water (water mixed with condensed
milk, if you have it) until quite thin. Bake
in moderate heat. Another: Into two[140]
cups of boiling water pour a half cup of
cornmeal. Sprinkle it in slowly, and stir
in order to prevent lumps. As soon as it
thickens, which will be in half a minute, remove
from the fire. Mix in a quarter cup of
syrup, some figs which have been soaked, a
spoonful of egg powder, milk if you have
it, and the flavoring—if you happen to have
tucked in a can of ginger, that is the best.
The mixture should be thin. Bake before
moderate fire.

I am not going on to elaborate a number
of puddings by name; that is where the cook-books
make their mistake. But with this
logical basis, you will soon invent all sorts of
delicious combinations. Some will be failures,
no doubt; but after you get the knack
you will be able to improvise on the least
promising materials.

Do not forget that mixing ingredients is
always worth trying. A combination of
rice and oatmeal boiled together does not
sound very good, but it is delicious, and quite
unlike either of its component parts. I[141]
instance it merely as an example of a dozen
similar.

Tea.—The usual way of cooking tea is to
pour the hot water on the leaves. If used
immediately this is the proper way. When,
however, as almost invariably happens about
camp, the water is left standing on the leaves
for some time, the tannin is extracted. This
makes a sort of tea soup, at once bitter and
unwholesome. A simple and easy way is to
provide yourself with a piece of cheesecloth
about six inches square. On the center drop
your dose of dry tea leaves. Gather up the
corners, and tie into a sort of loose bag.
Pour the hot water over this, and at the end
of five minutes fish out the bag. Untie it,
shake loose the tea leaves, and tuck away
until next time. The tea in the pot can
then be saved for the late fisherman without
fear of lining his stomach with leather.
Also it is no trouble.

Coffee, too, is more often bad than good
in the field. The usual method is to put a
couple of handfuls in cold water, bring it[142]
to a boil, and then set it aside to settle.
Sometimes it is good that way, and sometimes
it isn’t. A method that will always
succeed, however, is as follows: Bend an
ordinary piece of hay wire into the shape of
a hoop, slightly larger than the mouth of
your pot. On it sew a shallow cheesecloth
bag. Put your ground coffee in the bag,
suspend in the coffee pot, and pour the hot
water through. If you like it extra strong,
pour it through twice. The result is drip
coffee, delicious, and without grounds. To
clean the bag turn it inside out and pour
water through. Then flatten the hay wire
hoop slightly and tuck it away inside the pot
with the cups.

Mush.—The ideal method of cooking
mush is of course a double boiler and just
the amount of water the cereal will take up.
Over an open fire, that would result in a
burned product and a caked kettle. The
best way is to make it very thin at first, and
to boil it down to the proper consistency.

Beans will boil more quickly if you add[143]
a pinch of soda. An exaggerated pinch,
however, causes them to taste soapy, so beware.
If the water boils too low, add more
hot water, never cold; the latter toughens
them. When soft smash them with a fork,
add water, and cook with fat in the frying
pan.

Hardtack.—A most delicious dish to be
eaten immediately is made of pilot bread
soaked soft, and then fried. The same
cracker fried in olive oil, without being previously
soaked, comes out crisp and brown,
but without impaired transportability. When
butter is scarce this is a fine way to treat
them in preparation for a cold lunch by the
way.

Macaroni should be plunged in boiling
water, otherwise it gets tough. What remains
should be baked in mixture with
whatever else is left—whether meal, cereal,
or vegetable.

Corn.—After you have eaten what you
want of the warmed-up, mix what is left
with a spoonful or so of sugar, some diluted[144]
milk, and a spoonful of egg powder. Bake
it.

In the heat of the day’s struggle

Salmon may be eaten cold, but is better
hashed up with bread crumbs, well moistened,
and baked before a hot fire.

These are but a few general hints which
you will elaborate on. The Price Baking
Powder Co. publish gratis a “Mine and
Ranch Cookery” which is practical. Also
read Nessmuk’s Woodcraft.

This leaves out of account the various
hybrid mixtures of “what is left,” and the
meal and fish dishes in a good sporting
country. As a matter of fact mixtures generally
bake better than they boil.

[149]

CHAPTER IX

HORSE OUTFITS

Sawbuck Saddle.

You will find the Mexican or cowboy saddle
the only really handy riding saddle. I
am fully aware of the merits of the McClellan
and army saddles, but they lack what
seems to me one absolute essential, and that
is the pommel or horn. By wrapping your
rope about the latter you can lead reluctant
horses, pull firewood to camp, extract
bogged animals, and rope shy stock. Without[150]
it you are practically helpless in such
circumstances. The only advantage claimed
for the army saddle is its lightness. The
difference in weight between it and the cowboy
saddle need not be so marked as is ordinarily
the case. A stock saddle, used daily
in roping heavy cows, weighs quite properly
from thirty-five to fifty pounds. The same
saddle, of lighter leather throughout, made
by a conscientious man, need weigh but
twenty-five or thirty, and will still be strong
and durable enough for all ordinary use.
My own weighs but twenty-five pounds, and
has seen some very hard service.

Riding Saddle.

The stirrup leathers are best double, and
should be laced, never buckled. In fact the
logic of a wilderness saddle should be that it
can be mended in any part with thongs. The[151]
stirrups themselves should have light hood
tapaderos, or coverings. They will help in
tearing through brush, will protect your
toes, and will keep your feet dry in case of
rain. I prefer the round rather than the
square skirts.

In a cow country you will hear many and
heated discussions over the relative merits
of the single broad cinch crossing rather far
back; and the double cinches, one just behind
the shoulder and the other on the curve of
the belly. The double cinch is universally
used by Wyoming and Arizona cowmen;
and the “center fire” by Californians and
Mexicans—and both with equally heated
partisanship. Certainly as it would be difficult
to say which are the better horsemen,
so it would be unwise to attempt here a dogmatic
settlement of the controversy.

Proper Way of Arranging Straps on Holster and Saddle.

Saddle Holster—Usual Arrangement of Straps.

For ordinary mountain travel, however,
I think there can be no doubt that the double
cinch is the better. It is less likely to slip
forward or back on steep hills; it need not
be so tightly cinched as the “center fire,” and[152]
can be adjusted, according to which you
draw the tighter, for up or down hill. The
front cinch should be made of hair. I have
found that the usual cord cinches are apt to
wear sores just back of the shoulder. Webbing
makes a good back cinch. The handiest
rig for attaching them is that used by
the Texan and Wyoming cowmen. It is a
heavy oiled latigo strap, punched with buckle
holes, passing through a cinch ring supplied
with a large buckle tongue. You can reach
over and pull it up a hole or so without dismounting.
It differs from an ordinary
buckle only in that, in case the rig breaks,[153]
the strap can still be fastened like an ordinary
latigo in the diamond knot.

On the right-hand side of your pommel
will be a strap and buckle for your riata. A
pair of detachable leather saddle bags are
handy. The saddle blanket should be thick
and of first quality; and should be surmounted
by a “corona” to prevent wrinkling
under the slight movement of the saddle.

A heavy quirt is indispensable, both for
your own mount, if he prove refractory, but
also for the persuasion of the pack horse.

When with a large outfit, however, I always
carry a pea shooter or sling shot. With
it a man can spot a straying animal at considerable
distance, generally much to the
truant’s astonishment. After a little it will
rarely be necessary to shoot; a mere snapping
of the rubbers will bring every horse
into line.

The handiest and best rig for a riding
bridle can be made out of an ordinary halter.
Have your harness maker fasten a snap
hook to either side and just above the corners[154]
of the horse’s mouth. When you start
in the morning you snap your bit and reins
to the hooks. When you arrive in the evening
you simply unsnap the bit, and leave
the halter on.

Rope and spurs will be necessary. I prefer
the Mexican grass rope with a brass
honda to the rawhide riata, because I am
used to it. I once used a linen rope with
weighted honda that was soft and threw
well. The spurs will be of good steel, of
the cowboy pattern, with blunt rowels. The
smaller spurs are not so easy to reach a small
horse with, and are apt to overdo the matter
when they do. The wide spur leathers are
to protect the boot from chafing on the
stirrups.

There remains only your rifle to attend
to. The usual scabbard is invariably slung
too far forward. I always move the sling
strap as near the mouth of the scabbard as
it will go. The other sling strap I detach
from the scabbard and hang loopwise from
the back latigo-ring. Then I thrust the[155]
muzzle of the scabbarded rifle between the
stirrup leathers and through this loop, hang
the forward sling strap over the pommel—and
there I am! The advantage is that I
can remove rifle and scabbard without unbuckling
any straps. The gun should hang
on the left side of the horse so that after
dismounting you need not walk around him
to get it. A little experiment will show you
how near the horizontal you can sling it without
danger of its jarring out.

So much for your own riding horse. The
pack outfit consists of the pack saddle, with
the apparatus to keep it firm; its padding;
the kyacks, or alforjas—sacks to sling on
either side; and the lash rope and cinch with
which to throw the hitches.

The almost invariable type of pack saddle
is the sawbuck. If it is bought with especial
reference to the animal it is to be used
on, it is undoubtedly the best. But nothing
will more quickly gouge a hole in a horse’s
back than a saddle too narrow or too wide
for his especial anatomy. A saddle of this[156]
sort bolted together can be taken apart for
easier transportation by baggage or express.

Another and very good type of pack rig
is that made from an old riding saddle. The
stirrup rigging is removed, and an upright
spike bolted strongly to the cantle. The
loops of the kyacks are to be hung over the
horn and this spike. Such a saddle is apt
to be easy on a horse’s back, but is after all
merely a make-shift for a properly constructed
sawbuck.

Under Side of Pack Saddles.

Shape of Collar Pad—for Pack Saddles.

I shall only mention the aparejos. This
rig is used for freighting boxes and odd-shaped
bundles. It is practically nothing
but a heavy pad, and is used without kyacks.
You will probably never be called upon to[157]
use it; but in another chapter I will describe
one “sling” in order that you may be forearmed
against contingencies.

We will assume that you are possessed of
a good sawbuck saddle of the right size for
your pack animal. It will have the double
cinch rig. To the under surfaces tack firmly
two ordinary collar-pads by way of softening.
Beneath them you will use two blankets,
each as heavy as the one you place under
your riding saddle. This abundance is necessary
because a pack “rides dead”—that is,
does not favor the horse as does a living
rider. By way of warning, however, too
much is almost as bad as too little.

The almost universal saddle rigging in use
the West over is a breast strap of webbing
fastened at the forward points of the saddle,
and a breech strap fastened to the back
points of the saddle, with guy lines running
from the top to prevent its falling too far
down the horse’s legs. This, with the double
cinch, works fairly well. Its main trouble
is that the breech strap is apt to work up[158]
under the horse’s tail, and the breast strap
is likely to shut off his wind at the throat.

Mr. Ernest Britten, a mountaineer in the
Sierras, has, however, invented a rig which
in the nicety of its compensations, and the
accuracy of its adjustments is perfection.
Every one becomes a convert, and hastens to
alter his own outfit.

Mr. Ernest Britten’s Pack Rig.

The breasting is a strap (a) running from
the point of the saddle to a padded ring in
the middle of the chest. Thence another
strap (b) runs to the point of the saddle on
the other side, where it buckles. A third
strap (c) in the shape of a loop goes between[159]
the fore legs and around the front
cinch.

The breeching is somewhat more complicated.
I think, however, with a few rivets,
straps, and buckles you will be able to alter
your own saddle in half an hour.

Ordinary and Inferior Pack Rig Usually Employed.

The back cinch you remove. A short
strap (d), riveted to the middle of the front
cinch, passes back six inches to a ring (e).
This ring will rest on the middle of the belly.
From the ring two other straps (ff) ascend
diagonally to the buckles (g) in the ends of
the breeching. From the ends of the breeching
other straps (h) attach to what would be
the back cinch ring (k). That constitutes[160]
the breeching rig. It is held up by a long
strap (m) passing from one side to the
other over the horse’s rump through a ring
on top. The ring is attached to the saddle
by a short strap (n).

Nearing a crest and in sight of game

Such a rig prevents the breeching from
riding up or dropping down; it gives the
horse all his wind going up hill, but holds
firmly going down; when one part loosens,
the other tightens; and the saddle cinch, except
to keep the saddle from turning, is
practically useless and can be left comparatively
loose. I cannot too strongly recommend
you, both for your horse’s comfort and
your own, to adopt this rigging.

The kyacks, as I have said, are two sacks
to be slung one on each side of the horse.
They are provided with loops by which to
hang them over the sawbucks of the saddle,
and a long strap passes from the outside of
one across the saddle to a buckle on the outside
of the other.

Undoubtedly the best are those made of
rawhide. They weigh very little, will stand[161]
all sorts of hard usage, hold the pack rope
well, are so stiff that they well protect the
contents, and are so hard that miscellaneous
sharp-cornered utensils may be packed in
them without fear of injury either to them
or the animal. They are made by lacing
wet hides, hair out, neatly and squarely over
one of the wooden boxes built to pack two
five gallon oil cans. A round hardwood
stick is sewn along the top on one side—to
this the sling straps are to be attached.
After the hide has dried hard, the wooden
box is removed.

Only one possible objection can be urged
against rawhide kyacks; if you are traveling
much by railroad, they are exceedingly
awkward to ship. For that purpose they
are better made of canvas.

Many canvas kyacks are on the market,
and most of them are worthless. It is astonishing
how many knocks they are called on
to receive and how soon the abrasion of
rocks and trees will begin to wear them
through. Avoid those made of light material.[162]
Avoid also those made in imitation
of the rawhide with a stick along the top of
one side to take the sling straps. In no
time the ends of that stick will punch
through. The best sort are constructed of
OO canvas. The top is made of a half-inch
rope sewn firmly to the hem all around.
The sling straps are long, and riveted firmly.
The ends are reinforced with leather. Such
kyacks will give you good service and last
you a long time. When you wish to express
them, you pack your saddle and saddle
blankets in one, telescope the other over it,
and tie up the bundle with the lash rope.
The lash rope is important, for you will
have to handle it much, and a three months’
trip with a poor one would lose you your
immortal soul. Most articles on the subject
advise thirty-three feet. That is long
enough for the diamond hitch and for other
hitches with a very small top pack, but it
will not do for many valuable hitches on a
bulky pack. Forty feet is nearer the ticket.
The best is a manila half inch or five-eighth[163]
inch. If you boil it before starting out, you
will find it soft to handle. The boiling does
not impair its strength. Parenthetically: do
not become over-enthusiastic and boil your
riata, or you will make it aggravatingly
kinky. Cotton rope is all right, but apt to be
stiff. I once used a linen rope; it proved to
be soft, strong, and held well, but I have
never been able to find another.

Natural Cinch Hook of Oak.

The cinch hook sold with the outfit is sawn
into shape and strengthened with a bolt. If
you will go out into the nearest oak grove,
however, you can cut yourself a natural
hook which will last longer and hold much
better. The illustration shows the method
of attaching such a hook.

So you have your horses ready for their
burdens. Picket ropes should be of half-inch
rope and about 50 feet long. The bell for
the bell horse should be a loud one, with distinctive
note not easily blended with natural
sounds, and attached to a broad strap with
safety buckle.

Hobbles are of two patterns. Both consist[164]
of heavy leather straps to buckle around
either front leg and connected by two links
and a swivel. In one the strap passes first
through the ring to which the links are
attached, and then to the buckle. The other
buckles first, and then the end is carried
through the ring. You will find the first
mentioned a decided nuisance, especially on
a wet or frosty morning, for the leather
tends to atrophy in a certain position from
which numbed fingers have more than a little[165]
difficulty in dislodging it. The latter,
however, are comparatively easy to undo.

A—Wash Leather.	C—Steel Ring.
B—Heavy Leather.	D—Buckle.
E—Swivel.

Hobbles—Wrong (Upper) and Right Sort.

Hobbles should be lined. I have experimented
with various materials, including
the much lauded sheepskin with the wool on.
The latter when wet chafes as much as raw
leather, and when frozen is about as valuable
as a wood rasp. The best lining is a
piece of soft wash leather at least two inches
wider than the hobble straps.

With most horses it is sufficient to strap
a pair of these around the forelegs and
above the fetlocks. A gentle animal can be
trusted with them fastened below.

But many horses by dint of practice or
plain native cussedness can hop along with
hobbles nearly as fast as they could foot-free,[166]
and a lot too fast for you to catch them
single handed. Such an animal is an unmitigated
bother. Of course if there is good
staking you can picket him out; but quite
likely he is unused to the picket rope, or the
feed is scant.

In that case it may be that side lines—which
are simply hobbles by which a hind
foot and a fore foot are shackled—may
work. I have had pretty good success by
fastening a short heavy chain to one fore leg.
As long as the animal fed quietly, he was all
right, but an attempt at galloping or trotting
swung the chain sufficiently to rap him
sharply across the shins.

Very good hobbles can be made from a
single strand unraveled from a large rope,
doubled once to make a loop for one leg,
twisted strongly, the two ends brought
around the other leg and then thrust through
the fibers. This is the sort used generally
by cowboys. They are soft and easily carried,
but soon wear out.

[169]

CHAPTER X

HORSE PACKS

To the average wilderness traveler the
possession of a pack saddle and canvas
kyacks simplifies the problem considerably.
If you were to engage in packing as a business,
wherein probably you would be called
on to handle packages of all shapes and
sizes, however, you would be compelled to
discard your kyacks in favor of a sling made
of rope. And again it might very well happen[170]
that some time or another you might be
called on to transport your plunder without
appliances on an animal caught up from the
pasture. For this reason you must further
know how to hitch a pack securely to a naked
horse.

In this brief résumé of possibilities you
can see it is necessary that you know at least
three methods of throwing a lash rope—a
hitch to hold your top pack and kyacks, a
sling to support your boxes on the aparejos,
and a hitch for the naked horse. But in
addition it will be desirable to understand
other hitches adapted to different exigencies
of bulky top packs, knobby kyacks and the
like. One hitch might hold these all well
enough, but the especial hitch is better.

The detailment of processes by diagram
must necessarily be rather dull reading. It
can be made interesting by an attempt to
follow out in actual practice the hitches described.
For this purpose you do not need
a full-size outfit. A pair of towels folded
compactly, tied together, and thrown one[171]
each side over a bit of stove wood to represent
the horse makes a good pack, while a
string with a bent nail for cinch hook will
do as lash rope. With these you can follow
out each detail.

First of all you must be very careful to
get your saddle blankets on smooth and
without wrinkles. Hoist the saddle into
place, then lift it slightly and loosen the
blanket along the length of the backbone,
so that the weight of the pack will not bind
the blanket tight across the horse’s back. In
cinching up, be sure you know your animal;
some puff themselves out so that in five minutes
the cinch will hang loose. Fasten your
latigo or cinch straps to the lower ring.
Thus you can get at it even when the pack
is in place.

Distribute the weight carefully between
the kyacks. “Heft” them again and again.
The least preponderance on one side will
cause a saddle to sag in that direction; that
in turn will bring pressure to bear on the
opposite side of the withers, and that will[172]
surely chafe to a sore. Then you are in
trouble.

When you are quite sure the kyacks
weigh alike, get your companion to hang
one on the pack saddle, at the same time you
hook the straps of the other. If you try to
do it by yourself you must leave one hanging
while you pick up the other, thus running
a good risk of twisting the saddle.

The Jam Hitch.

Your top pack you will build as the occasion
demands. In general, try to make it as
low as possible and to get your blankets on
top where the pack rope “bites.” The strap
connecting the kyacks is then buckled. Over
all you will throw the canvas tarpaulin that
you use to sleep on. Tuck it in back and
front to exclude dust. It is now ready for
the pack rope.

1. The Jam Hitch.—All hitches possess
one thing in common—the rope passes
around the horse and through the cinch
hook. The first pull is to tighten that cinch.
Afterward other maneuvers are attempted.
Now ordinarily the packer pulls tight his[173]
cinch, and then in the further throwing of
the hitch he depends on holding his slack. It
is a very difficult thing to do. With the jam
hitch, however, the necessity is obviated.
The beauty of it is that the rope renders
freely one way—the way you are pulling—but
will not give a hair the other—the direction
of loosening. So you may heave up
the cinch as tightly as you please, then drop[174]
the rope and go on about your packing perfectly
sure that nothing is going to slip back
on you.

The rope passes once around the shank
of the hook, and then through the jaw (see
diagram). Be sure to get it around the
shank and not the curve. Simplicity itself;
and yet I have seen very few packers who
know of it.

2. The Diamond Hitch.—I suppose the
diamond in one form or another is more
used than any other. Its merit is its adaptability
to different shapes and sizes of
package—in fact it is the only hitch good
for aparejo packing—its great flattening
power, and the fact that it rivets the pack
to the horse’s sides. If you are to learn but
one hitch, this will be the best for you, although
certain others, as I shall explain
under their proper captions, are better
adapted to certain circumstances.

The diamond hitch is also much discussed.
I have heard more arguments over it than
over the Japanese war or original sin.[175]

“That thing a diamond hitch!” shrieks a
son of the foothills to a son of the alkali.
“Go to! Looks more like a game of cat’s
cradle. Now this is the real way to throw
a diamond.”

Certain pacifically inclined individuals
have attempted to quell the trouble by a
differentiation of nomenclature. Thus one
can throw a number of diamond hitches,
provided one is catholically minded—such
as the “Colorado diamond,” the “Arizona
diamond,” and others. The attempt at peace
has failed.

“Oh, yes,” says the son of the alkali as
he watches the attempts of the son of the
foothills. “That’s the Colorado diamond,”
as one would say that is a paste jewel.

The joke of it is that the results are about
the same. Most of the variation consists in
the manner of throwing. It is as though
the discussion were whether the trigger
should be pulled with the fore, middle, or
both fingers. After all, the bullet would
go anyway.[176]

A downward journey

I describe here the single diamond, as
thrown in the Sierra Nevadas, and the double
diamond as used by government freight
packers in many parts of the Rockies. The
former is a handy one-man hitch. The latter
can be used by one man, but is easier
with two.

Throw the pack cinch (a) over the top
of the pack, retaining the loose end of the
rope. If your horse is bad, reach under him
with a stick to draw the cinch within reach
of your hand until you hold it and the loose
end both on the same side of the animal.
Hook it through the hook (a, Fig. II) and
bring up along the pack. Thrust the bight
(a, Fig. III) of the loose rope under the
rope (b); the back over and again under to
form a loop. The points (c–c) at which the
loose rope goes around the pack rope can be
made wide apart or close together, according
to the size of the diamond required (Fig. V).
With a soft top-pack requiring flattening,
the diamond should be large; with heavy side
pack, smaller.[177]

THE SINGLE DIAMOND.

[178]

Now go around to the other side of the
animal. Pass the loose end (d, Fig. III)
back, under the alforjas, forward and
through the loop from below as shown by
the arrows of direction in Fig. IV.

You are now ready to begin tightening.
First pull your cinch tight by means of
what was the loose end (b) in Fig. II.
Place one foot against the animal and heave,
good and plenty. Take up the slack by
running over both ends of the loop (c–c
Fig. III). When you have done this, go
around the other side. There take up the
slack on b–b Fig. IV. With all there is in
you pull the loose end (c, Fig. IV) in the
direction of the horse’s body, toward his
head. Brace your foot against the kyacks.
It will sag the whole hitch toward the front
of the pack, but don’t mind that: the defect
will be remedied in a moment.

Next, still holding the slack (Fig. V),
carry the loose end around the bottom of the
alforjas and under the original main pack
rope (c). Now pull again along the direction[179]
of the horse’s body, but this time toward
his tail. The strain will bend the pack rope
(c), heretofore straight across, back to form
the diamond. It will likewise drag back to
its original position amidships in the pack
the entire hitch, which, you will remember,
was drawn too far forward by your previous
pull toward the horse’s head. Thus the last
pull tightens the entire pack, clamps it
down, secures it immovably, which is the
main recommendation and beautiful feature
of the diamond hitch.

THE DOUBLE DIAMOND.

THE DOUBLE DIAMOND.

The double diamond is a much more complicated
affair. Begin by throwing the
cinch under, not over the horse. Let it lie
there. Lay the end of the rope (a) lengthwise
of the horse across one side the top of
the pack (Fig. 1). Experience will teach
you just how big to leave loop (b). Throw
loop (b) over top of pack (Fig. 2). Reverse
loop a (Fig. 2) by turning it from
left to right (Fig. 3). Pass loop (a)
around front and back of kyack, and end
of rope d over rope c, and under rope d.[182]
Pass around the horse and hook the cinch
hook in loop (e).

This forms another loop (a, Fig. 4),
which must be extended to the proper size
and passed around the kyack on the other
side (Fig. 5). Now tighten the cinch, pull
up the slack, giving strong heaves where
the hitch pulls forward or back along the
left of the horse, ending with a last tightener
at the end (b, Fig. 5). The end is
then carried back under the kyack and fastened.

3. The Square Hitch is easily and quickly
thrown, and is a very good fair-weather lash.
In conjunction with half hitches, as later
explained, it makes a good hitch for a bucking
horse. For a very bulky pack it is excellent
in that it binds in so many places.
It is thrown as follows:

The Square Hitch.

Throw the cinch hook over the pack, and
cinch tight with the jam hitch before described.
Lead the end across the horse,
around the back of kyack on the other side,
underneath it, and up over at a. The end[183]
here passes beneath at b. You will find
that you can, when you cinch up at first,
throw a loose loop over the pack comprising
the bight bed, so as to leave your loose[184]
end at d. Then place the loop bed around
the kyack. A moment’s study of the diagram
will show you what I mean, and will
also convince you that much is gained by
not having to pass rope (a) underneath
at b. Now pull hard on loose end at d,
taking care to exert your power lengthwise
of the horse. Pass the line under the alforjas
toward the rear, up over the pack and under
the original rope at c. Pull on the loose
end, this time exerting the power toward the
rear. You cannot put too much strength
into the three tightening pulls: (1) in cinching
through the cinch hook; (2) the pull
forward; (3) the pull back. On them depends
the stability of your pack. Double
back the loose end and fasten it. This is a
very quick hitch.

The Bucking Hitch.

4. The Bucking Hitch is good to tie
things down on a bad horse, but it is otherwise
useless to take so much trouble.

Pass the pack rope around the kyacks on
one side, and over itself. This forms a half
hitch, below which hangs the cinch. Lead[185]
the pack rope over the top of the pack,
around the other kyack, and through to form
another half hitch. Cinch up, and throw
either the single diamond or the square hitch.
The combination will clamp the kyacks as
firmly as anything can.

5. The Miner’s Hitch.—This hitch is very
much on the same principle, but is valuable
when you happen to be provided with only
a short rope, or a cinch with two rings, instead
of a ring and a hook.

The Miner’s Hitch.

Take your rope—with the cinch unattached—by
the middle and throw it across[186]
the pack. Make a half hitch over either
kyack. These half hitches, instead of running
around the sides of the kyacks, as in[187]
the last hitch, should run around the top,
bottom, and ends (see diagram). Thrust
bight (b) through cinch ring, and end (a)
through the bight. Do the same thing on
the other side. Make fast end a at c, and
end d at e, cinching up strongly on the
bights that come through the cinch rings.

THE LONE PACKER HITCH.

The Lone Packer Hitch.

6. The Lone Packer or Basco Hitch.—This
is a valuable hitch when the kyacks are
heavy or knobby, because the last pull lifts
them away from the horse’s sides. It requires
at least forty feet of rope. I use it
a great deal.

Cinch up with the jam hitch as usual.
Throw the end of the rope across the horse,
under the forward end of the kyack on the
far side, beneath it and up over the rear end
of the kyack. The rope in all other hitches
binds against the bottom of the kyacks; but
in this it should pass between the kyack and
the horse’s side (Fig. 1). Now bring a
bight in loose end (a) forward over rope
(c), and thrust it through under rope (c)
from front to back (Fig. 2). Be sure to[189]
get this right. Hold bight (b) with left
hand where it is, and with the other slide
end (a) down along rope (c) until beneath
the kyacks (Fig. 3). Seize rope at d
and pull hard directly back; then pull
cinchwise on a. The first pull tightens the[190]
pack; the second lifts the kyacks. Carry
end (a) across the pack and repeat on the
other side. Fasten finally anywhere on top.
Fig. 4 shows one side completed, with rope
thrown across ready for the other side.
Fig. 5 is a view from above of the
hitch, completed except for the fastening
of end (a).

In case you have eggs or glassware to
pack, spread your tarp on the horse twice
as long as usual. Cinch up with the jam
hitch, lay your eggs, etc., atop the rope; fold
back the canvas to cover the whole, and then
throw the lone packer, placing one rope
each side the package (Figs. 6 and 7).

7. The Squaw Hitch.—Often it may
happen that you find yourself possessed of
a rope and a horse, but nothing else. It is
quite possible to pack your equipment with
only these simple auxiliaries.

Lay your tarp on the ground fully spread.
On half of it pack your effects, striving always
to keep them as flat and smooth as
possible. Fold the other half of the canvas[191]
to cover the pack. Lay this thick mattress-like
affair across the horse’s bare back, and
proceed to throw the squaw hitch as follows:

The Squaw Hitch.

Throw a double bight across the top of
the pack (Fig. 1). Pass end a under the
horse and through loop c; and end b under
the horse and through loop (d). Take both
a and b directly back under the horse again,
in the opposite direction, of course, and pass[192]
both through loop (e). Now cinch up on
the two ends and fasten.

8. Sling No. 1.—When you possess no
kyacks, but have some sort of pack saddle,
it is necessary to improvise a sling.

Sling No. 1.

Sling No. 2.

Fasten the middle of your rope by means
of two half hitches to the front of the pack
saddle (Fig. 1). Throw the ends (b, b)
crossed as shown in Fig. 2. Place the box
or sack in bight (a), passing the rope around
the outside and the ends, as in Fig. 3. The
end of the sack should be just even with the
front of the pack saddle. If you bring it
too far forward the front of the sling will
sag. Pass the end (b) underneath the sack
or burden, across its middle, and over the top[193]
of the saddle. When the other side is similarly
laden, the ends (b, b) may be tied together
at the top; or if they are long enough,
may be fastened at c (Fig. 4).

9. Sling No. 2.—Another sling is sometimes
handy for long bundles, and is made as
follows:

Fasten the rope by the middle as explained
in the last. Fasten ends (b, b) to
the rear horn or to each other (see diagram).
Leave the bights of the rope (a, a)
of sufficient length so they can be looped
around the burden and over the horns. This[194]
sling is useful only on a regular pack saddle,
while the other really does not need the rear
pommel at all, as the ropes can be crossed
without it.

10. The Saddle Hitch.—There remains
now the possibility, or let us hope probability,
that you may some day wish to pack a
deer on your riding saddle, or perhaps bring
in a sack of grain or some such matter.

The Saddle Hitch.

Throw the rope across the seat of the
saddle, leaving long ends on both sides.
Lay your deer aboard, crosswise. Thrust
a bight (a) of one end through your cinch
ring, and pass the loop thus formed around
the deer’s neck (Fig. 1). Repeat on the
other side, bringing the loop there about his
haunch. Cinch up the two ends of the rope,
and tie them on top.

Illustrating How to Pack Eggs or Glassware.

The great point in throwing any hitch is
to keep the rope taut. To do this, pay no
attention to your free end, but clamp down
firmly the fast end with your left hand
until the right has made the next turn.
Remember this; it is important. The least[195]
slip back of the slack you have gained is
going to loosen that pack by ever so little;
and then you can rely on the swing and
knocks of the day’s journey to do the rest.
The horse rubs under a limb or against a[196]
big rock; the loosened rope scrapes off the
top of the pack; something flops or rattles
or falls—immediately that cayuse arches his
back, lowers his head, and begins to buck.
It is marvelous to what height the bowed
back will send small articles catapult-wise
into the air. First go the tarpaulin and
blankets; then the duffle bags; then one by
one the contents of the alforjas; finally,
after they have been sufficiently lightened,
the alforjas themselves in an abandoned[198]
parabola of debauched delight. In the
meantime that horse, and all the others, has
been running frantically all over the rough
mountains, through the rocks, ravines, brush
and forest trees. You have ridden recklessly
trying to round them up, sweating,
swearing, praying to the Red Gods that
none of those indispensable animals is going
to get lame in this insane hippodrome.
Finally between you, you have succeeded
in collecting and tying to trees all the culprits.
Then you have to trail inch by inch
along the track of the cyclone, picking up
from where they have fallen, rolled, or been
trampled, the contents of that pack down to
the smallest. It will take you the rest of
the day; and then you’ll miss some. Oh, it
pays to get your hitch on snug!

THE RESULT OF NOT GETTING THE HITCH ON SNUG.

11. The Tie Hitch.—The hitches described
are all I have ever had occasion to
use, and will probably carry you through
any emergencies that may be likely to arise.
But perhaps many times during the day you
are likely to want to stop the train for the[199]
purpose of some adjustments. Therefore
you will attach your lead ropes in a manner
easily to be thrown loose. Thrust the bight
(a) of the lead rope beneath any part of
the pack rope (b, b). Double back the
bight (d) of the loose end (c) through the
loop (a) thus formed. Tighten the knot
by pulling tight on loop d. A sharp pull
on c will free the entire lead rope.

The Tie Hitch.

[203]

CHAPTER XI

HORSES, MULES, BURROS

Burros are an aggravation; and yet in
some circumstances they are hard to beat.[204]
They are unbelievably slow, and unbelievably
stubborn. When they get tired—or
think they do—they stop, and urging merely
confirms their decision to rest. You cannot
hurry them. They hate water, and it is
sometimes next to impossible to force them
into a deep or swift stream. They are
camp thieves, and will eat anything left
within their reach. Still, they can live on
sage-bush, go incredible periods without
drinking, make their way through country
impassible to any other hoofed animals excepting
goats and sheep. Certain kinds of
desert travel is impossible without them, and
some sorts of high rough mountaineering
is practicable only with their aid. At times
you will be driven to the use of them. In
such an emergency gird your soul with
patience, and try to buy big ones.

Pack mules are almost impossible to get,
and are generally very high priced. A good
pack mule does not mean any old mule that
comes along. The animal should be rather
small, chunkily built, gentle as to the heels[205]
and teeth, accustomed to carrying and taking
care of a pack, trained to follow the
saddle horses, and not inclined to stray from
camp. Such perfection costs anywhere
from seventy-five to one hundred and fifty
dollars. It is worth the price to one who
does much packing; but as perfectly adequate
pack horses can be had for from
twenty to forty dollars, and are easy to find,
you will in all likelihood choose them.

Now I know perfectly well that I can
tell you nothing about choosing a horse. If
you are a New Englander you will know
all about the trade; if you are a New Yorker,
you could give me points on every horse in
the ring; if you are Middle West, you probably
have read or worked or traded or raised
more horses than I will ever ride. But in
selecting a mountain horse, his mere points
as a physical specimen are often little in his
favor, while glaring defects may concern his
usefulness hardly at all.

Never mind at first how the horse offered
for your inspection looks. Examine him for[206]
blemishes later. You must first discover if
he is sure-footed and courageous. An eastern
horse would not last five minutes on a
western trail. A western horse, no matter
how accustomed to mountain work, is worse
than useless if subject to ordinary horse-panics
at suddenly rustling leaves, unexpected
black stubs, and the like. He must
attend to his footing, keep his eyes for the
trail, and be wise. Next you must inquire
if this steadiness carries over into other
things. He must stand when left without
hitching, and must be easy to catch. Often
you will have to dismount for the purpose
of clearing trail, helping the pack train,
tightening ropes, or reconnoitering. At
such junctures iron hitching posts are not
always at hand. Nothing is more aggravating
than the necessity of searching everywhere
for a place to tie, or worse, to be
forced to chase down and coax quiet a horse
that has promptly decamped when left for
a moment to himself. Nor does it add to
your joy to get up at four for the purpose[207]
of making an early start, only to spend the
extra hour filched from sleep in an attempt
to catch some snorting fool horse.

The picture I have sketched looks to you
somewhat like what is known as an “old
cow,” doesn’t it? But in reality good horses
of the quality named are not difficult to find.
Equine intelligence is of a higher grade
West than East, mainly because a western
horse is all his life thrown on his own resources.
It is perfectly possible to find a
horse both handsome and spirited, which will
nevertheless permit himself to be directly
approached in pasture, and will stand until
further orders on the trail.

But the point is that it is much better,
oh, infinitely! to get an “old cow” than a
horse without these qualities. The “old
cow” will carry you, and will be there when
wanted. That is the main thing in the
mountains. While as for the other horse,
no matter how well bred he is, how spirited,
how well gaited, how handsome, how appealing
in every way to a horseman’s eye—he[208]
will be worse than no horse if you have
to keep your hands on him, if he must be
picketed at night, if he is likely to shy on a
bad trail, if he may refuse to tackle a rough
place or to swim a river.

In mid-day the shade of the pines is inviting

Of course it is nice to ride a good-looking
horse; but in the mountains most emphatically
“handsome is what handsome does.”
The horses I now own are fine animals and
fine mountain ponies; but some of the best
I have ever ridden, a horseman would not
look at twice. On a time, being under the
absolute necessity of getting a pack quickly,
I purchased a bay that I promptly named
Methuselah. He was some sixteen years
old, badly stove forward by hard riding, and
not much of a horse anyway. For three
months he carried a pack. Then one day I
threw a saddle on him to go a short distance
on some little errand. Methuselah, overjoyed,
did his best. The old horse was one
of the best mountain saddlers in the outfit.
He climbed surely and well; he used his head
in negotiating bad places; would stay where[209]
he was put. The fact that he was not sound
was utterly unimportant, for not once in a
week was he required to go faster than a
walk.

On the other hand I once owned a Bill-horse,
mountain-bred and raised. He was
a beautiful beast, proud, high-stepping—one
you would be glad to be seen on. He
would have been worth considerable money,
and would have afforded much solid satisfaction
if I had wanted him for cow work,
or pleasure riding in the lower country.
But it was absolutely impossible to catch
him, even hobbled, without a corral. One
day I saw him leap from a stand and with
hobbles over a fence and feed trough. So
I traded him for another, not near so much
of a horse, as a horse, but worth two dozen
Bill-horses.

One other thing you must notice, and
that is whether or not the beast is gun shy.
A great many stampede wildly at the report
of firearms. I once owned a pack horse
named Sam Fat, on which for some time[210]
I congratulated myself. He was a heavy
animal, and could carry a tremendous load;
and yet he was sure-footed and handled himself
well on rough country. He was gentle
and friendly. He took excellent care of his
pack, and he followed perfectly. No one
needed to ride behind him to keep Sam Fat
coming. I used to turn him loose when I
started, and pay no more attention to him
until I stopped. No matter how rich the
feed through which we passed, Sam Fat was
always on hand when the halt was called.
And, very important point, he was a good
rustler—he kept fat and sleek on poor food
where other horses gaunted. Altogether
Sam Fat was a find. Then one day one of
the party shot off a harmless little twenty-two
caliber popgun. Sam Fat went crazy.
He squatted flat, uttered a terrified squeal,
and departed through the woods, banging
his pack against trees and hanging limbs.
We chased him a mile, and finally brought
him back, but all the rest of the day he was
panicky. I tried to get him accustomed to[211]
shooting by tying him near our target practice,
but it was no use. Finally, though
reluctantly, I sold him.

So when the natives bring in their horses
for your selection blind your eyes to the
question of looks and points until you have
divided the offering into two parts—those
that are sure-footed, courageous, gentle,
tractable, easy to catch, good grub rustlers,
and if pack horses, those that will follow and
will take care of their packs, and those that
lack one or more of these qualifications.
Discard the second group. Then if the first
group contains nothing but blemished or
homely horses, make the best of it, perfectly
sure that the others might as well not
exist.

In general, a horse just from pasture
should have a big belly. A small-bellied
horse will prove to be a poor feeder, and
will probably weaken down on a long hike.
The best horse stands from fourteen hands
to fourteen two, and is chunkily built. There
are exceptions, both ways, to this rule. A[212]
pack horse is better with low withers on
account of the possibility of sore backs.
Avoid a horse whose ears hang sidewise
from his head; he is apt to be stubborn.
As for the rest, horse sense is the same
everywhere.

A pack horse can carry two hundred
pounds—not more. Of course more can be
piled on him, and he will stand up under it,
but on a long trip he will deteriorate.
Greater weights are carried only in text
books, in camp-fire lies, and where a regular
pack route permits of grain feeding. A
good animal, with care, will take two hundred
successfully enough, but I personally
always pack much lighter. Feed costs nothing,
so it is every bit as cheap to take three
horses as two. The only expense is the
slight bother of packing an extra animal.
In return you can travel farther and more
steadily, the chances of sore backs are minimized,
your animals keep fat and strong, and
in case one meets with an accident, you can
still save all your effects on the other. For[213]
the last three years I have made it a practice
to pack only about a hundred to a
hundred and twenty-five pounds when off
for a very long trip. My animals have always
come out fat and hearty, sometimes in
marked contrast to those of my companions,
and I have not had a single case of sore back.

The latter are best treated by Bickmore’s
Gall Cure. Its use does not interfere in the
least with packing; and I have never seen a
case it did not cure inside ten days or two
weeks if applied at the beginning of the
trouble.

In the mountains and on grass-feed
twenty miles a day is big travel. If you
push more than that you are living beyond
your income. It is much better, if you are
moving every day, to confine yourself to
jaunts of from twelve to fifteen miles on an
average. Then if necessity arises, you have
something to fall back on, and are able to
make a forced march.

The distance may seem very short to you
if you have never traveled in the mountains;[214]
but as a matter of fact you will probably
find it quite sufficient, both in length of time
and in variety of scenery. To cover it you
will travel steadily for from six to eight
hours; and in the diversity of country will
be interested every step of the way. Indeed
so varied will be the details that it will
probably be difficult to believe you have made
so small a mileage, until you stop to reflect
that, climbing and resting, no horse can go
faster than two or two and one-half miles
an hour.

On the desert or the plains the length of
your journey must depend entirely on the
sort of feed you can get. Thirty miles a
day for a long period is all a fed-horse can
do, while twenty is plenty enough for an
animal depending on his own foraging.
Longer rides are not to be considered in the
course of regular travel. I once did one
hundred and eighty miles in two days—and
then took a rest.

In the mountains you must keep in mind
that a horse must both eat and rest; and[215]
that he will not graze when frost is on the
meadows. Many otherwise skillful mountaineers
ride until nearly dark, and are up
and off soon after daylight. They wonder
why their horses lose flesh and strength.
The truth is the poor beasts must compress
their twenty-four hours of sustenance into
the short noon stop, and the shorter evening
before the frost falls. It is often much
wiser to get a very early start, to travel until
the middle of the afternoon, and then to go
into camp. Whatever inconvenience and
discomfort you may suffer is more than
made up for by the opportunities to hunt,
fish, or cook afforded by the early stop; and
the time you imagine you lose is regained
in the long run by the regularity of your
days’ journeys.

On the desert or the plains where it is hot,
to the contrary, you will have better luck by
traveling early and late. Desert journeying
is uncomfortable anyway, but has its
compensations. We ordinarily get under
way by three in the morning; keep going[216]
until nine; start about six again—after supper—and
travel until nine of the evening.
Thus we take advantage of whatever coolness
is possible, and see the rising and the
falling of the day, which is the most wonderful
and beautiful of the desert’s gifts.

Going up steep hills in high altitudes you
must breathe your horse every fifty feet or
so. It need not be a long rest. Merely rein
him in for eight or ten seconds. Do the
same thing always before entering the negotiation
of a bad place in the trail. Do this,
no matter how fresh and eager your animal
may seem. Often it spells the difference
between a stumble and a good clean climb.
An experienced pack horse will take these
rests on his own initiative, stopping and also
starting again with the regularity of clockwork.

It does not hurt a horse to sweat, but if
ever he begins to drip heavily, and to tremble
in the legs, it is getting time to hunt the
shade for a rest. I realize that such minor
points as these may be perfectly well known[217]
to every one likely to read this book, and yet
I have seen so many cases of ignorance of
them on the trail that I risk their inclusion
here.

Every hour or so loosen the cinches of
your saddle horse and raise the saddle and
blankets an inch or so to permit a current
of air to pass through. Steaming makes
the back tender. When you unsaddle him
or the pack animals, if they are very hot,
leave the blankets across them for a few
moments. A hot sun shining on a sweaty
back causes small pimples, which may develop
into sores. It is better to bathe with
cold water the backs of green horses; but
such a trouble is not necessary after they
are hardened.

Two more things I will mention, though
strictly speaking, they do not fall in the
province of equipment. When you pick up
a horse’s hind foot, face to the rear, put the
hand nearest the horse firmly against his
flank, and use the other to raise the hoof.
Then if he tries to kick, you can hold him[218]
off sufficiently to get out of the way. Indeed
the very force of his movement toward
you will thrust against the hand on his flank
and tend to throw you to one side.

If you are called upon to mount a bad
horse, seize the check piece of his bridle in
your left hand and twist his head sharply
toward you. At the same time grasp the
pommel in your right hand, thrust your foot
in the stirrup and swing aboard. Never
get on any western horse as an easterner
mounts—left hand on pommel and right
hand on cantle. If a horse plunges forward
to buck while you are in this position,
you will inevitably land back of the saddle.
Then he has a fine leverage to throw you
about forty feet. A bad pack horse you
can handle by blindfolding. Anchor things
for a storm, take off the bandage, and stand
one side.

[221]

CHAPTER XII

CANOES

Practicable canoes are made of birch bark
stretched over light frames; of cedar; of
basswood; of canvas, and of canvas cover
over stiff frames.

The birch bark canoe has several unassailable
advantages. It is light; it carries a
greater weight in proportion to its length[222]
than any other; it is very easily mended.
On the other hand it is not nearly so fast as
a wooden canoe of sweeter lines; does not
bear transportation so well; is more easily
punctured; and does not handle so readily
in a heavy wind. These advantages and
disadvantages, as you can see, balance
against one another. If it tends to veer in
a heavy wind more than the wooden canoe, it
is lighter on portage. If more fragile, it is
very easily mended. If it is not quite so
fast, it carries more duffle. Altogether, it is
a very satisfactory all-around craft in which
I have paddled many hundreds of miles, and
with which I have never been seriously dissatisfied.
If I were to repeat some long explorations
in the absolute wilds of Canada
I should choose a birch canoe, if only for the
reason that no matter how badly I might
smash it, the materials are always at hand
for repairs. A strip of bark from the nearest
birch tree; a wad of gum from the next
spruce; some spruce roots; a little lard and
a knife will mend a canoe stove in utterly.[223]

In selecting a birch bark canoe the most
important thing to look after is to see that
the bottom is all one piece without projecting
knots or mended cracks. Many canoes
have bottoms made of two pieces. These
when grounded almost invariably spring
a leak at the seam, for the simple reason that
it takes very little to scrape off the slightly
projecting gum. On the other hand, a bottom
of one good piece of bark will stand an
extraordinary amount of raking and bumping
without being any the worse. If in
addition you can get hold of one made of
the winter cut of bark, the outside shell will
be as good as possible. Try to purchase a
new canoe. Should this be impossible, look
well to the watap, or roots, used in the
sewing, that they are not frayed or burst.
The frames should lie so close together
as fairly to touch. Such a canoe, “two
fathoms,” will carry two men and four hundred
pounds besides. It will weigh about
fifty to seventy pounds, and should cost new
from six to eight dollars.[224]

Getting ready for another day of it

A wooden canoe, of some sort, is perhaps
better for all smooth and open-water sailing,
and all short trips nearer home. It will
stand a great deal of jamming about, but is
very difficult to mend if ever you do punch
a hole in it. You will need to buy a longer
craft than when getting a birch. The latter
will run from twelve to fourteen feet. A
wood canoe of that length would float gunwhale
awash at half you would wish to carry.
Seventeen or eighteen feet is small enough
for two men, although I have cruised in
smaller. Cedar is the lighter material—and
the more expensive—but splits too readily.
Basswood is heavier, but is cheaper and
tougher.

The folding canvas boat is an abomination.
It is useful only as a craft from which
to fish in an inaccessible spot. Sooner or
later it sags and gives, and so becomes logy.

A canoe is made, however, and much used
by the Hudson’s Bay Company, exactly on
the frame of a birch bark, but covered with
tightly stretched and painted canvas. It is[225]
a first-rate craft, combining an approach to
the lightness of the birch bark with the
sweeter lines of the wooden canoe. All ordinary
small tears in its bottom are easily
patched by the gum method. Its only inferiority
to the birch rests in the facts that it
is more easily torn; that a major accident,
such as the smashing of an entire bow, cannot
be as readily mended; and that it will
not carry quite so great a weight. All in
all, however, it is a good and serviceable
canoe.

In portaging, I have always had pretty
good luck with the primitive Indian fashion—the
two paddles lengthwise across the
thwarts and resting on the shoulders, with
perhaps a sweater or other padding to relieve
the pressure. It is possible, however,
to buy cushions which just fit, and on which
you can kneel while paddling, and also a
regular harness to distribute the weight. I
should think they might be very good, and
would certainly be no trouble to carry. Only
that makes one more thing to look after,[226]
and the job can perfectly well be done without.

The Indian paddle is a very long and
very narrow blade, just as long as the height
of its wielder. For use in swift and somewhat
shallow water, where often the paddle
must be thrust violently against the bottom
or a rock, this form is undoubtedly the best.
In more open, or smoother water, however,
the broader and shorter blade is better,
though even in the latter case it is well to
select one of medium length. Otherwise you
will find yourself, in a heavy sea, sometimes
reaching rather frantically down toward the
water. Whatever its length, attach it to the
thwart nearest you by a light strong line.
Then if you should go overboard you will
retain control of your craft. I once swam
over a mile before I was able to overtake a
light canoe carried forward by a lively wind.

On any trip wherein you may have to work
your way back against the current, you must
carry an iron “shoe” to fit on a setting pole.
Any blacksmith can make you one. Have[227]
it constructed with nail holes. Then when
you want a setting pole, you can cut one in
the woods, and nail to it your iron shoe.

The harness for packs is varied enough,
but the principle remains simple. A light
pack will hang well enough from the shoulders,
but when any weight is to be negotiated
you must call into play the powerful muscles
lying along the neck. Therefore, in
general, an ordinary knapsack will answer
very well for packs up to say thirty pounds.
Get the straps broad and soft; see that they
are both sewed and riveted.

Tumplines.

When, however, your pack mounts to
above thirty pounds you will need some sort
of strap to pass across the top of your head.
This is known as a tumpline, and consists
of a band of leather to cross the head, and
two long thongs to secure the pack. The
blanket or similar cloth is spread, the thongs
laid lengthwise about a foot from either
edge, and the blanket folded inward and
across the thongs. The things to be carried
are laid on the end of the blanket toward the[228]
head piece. The other end of the blanket,
from the folds of which the ends of the
thongs are protruding, is then laid up over
the pile. The ends of the thongs are then
pulled tight, tied together, and passed
around the middle of the pack. To carry
this outfit with any degree of comfort, be
sure to get it low, fairly in the small of the
back or even just above the hips. A compact
and heavy article, such as a sack of
flour, is a much simpler matter. The thongs
are tied together at a suitable distance. One
side of the loop thus formed goes around[229]
your head, and the other around the sack of
flour. It will not slip.

By far the best and most comfortable
pack outfit I have used is a combination of the
shoulder and the head methods. It consists
of shoulder harness like that used on knapsacks,
with two long straps and buckles to
pass around and secure any load. A tumpline
is attached to the top of the knapsack
straps. I have carried in this contrivance
over a hundred pounds without discomfort.
Suitable adjustment of the headstrap will
permit you to relieve alternately your neck
and shoulders. Heavy or rather compact
articles can be included in the straps, while
the bulkier affairs will rest very well on top
of the pack. It is made by Abercrombie &
Fitch, and costs two dollars and seventy-five
cents.

[233]

INDEX